Riches? Rags?

I know that you are used to a more lavish lifestyle

You, in your high heels

But I, in my worn shoes and soul

Ask that you might try and embrace

A simpler life

With me

My gloves may be torn and frayed

But they cover my hands nonetheless

Much like how I would yours

My riches are few

Fewer than none in truth

But my love knows no bounds

It can catch fire to an empty barrel

Just as it would your full, full heart

I offer you stories

And my laughter at your jokes

I offer you pennies

Worth much less than your thoughts

I cannot afford to buy you great gifts

(I apologize for that in advance)

But I can walk by your side

And help you carry heavy things

I can smile

When you won’t

I can write you love poems

And read them to you while you sleep

I can cook you a meal

Fit for a peasant

For kings have no taste

I know that it is not much

But it is not little either

I ask you to not take

What I freely give for granted

I ask that you would give it back

If ever I asked

Do this for me

And I will move the world for you

Shake trees

And melt icebergs

If only to prove that a simple man

Can be more than just that.

Dear Landscape with Blah Blah Blah by Matthew Poindexter

Thank you for the lunch last Sunday
at El Rey del Taco, where we each ate
pescado frito entrées, then split a dish
of crippling self-doubt for dessert.
Doubt can be no course but the last, can it?
Thank you for telling, between bites

of fish with lime and garlic sauce, the story
of the son who became so angry at his mother
for remarrying, he burned her signed
first edition of Catcher in the Rye.
I think you’d feel a little better if you torched
someone else’s stuff—just as long as it’s not mine.

Thank you for agreeing with me about whom
amongst our friends would be the best
to sleep with, and who doesn’t make the cut.
Thank you for proposing we make some rules
to follow in our poems: no more “Landscape
with Blah Blah Blah” in the title. No more

epistolary verse addressing inanimate objects:
“Dear Rutabaga,” “Dear Pitcher’s Mound,”
“Dear Food Stamp Act of 1964.” My offer
to ignore the second rule—if you promise me
you’ll break the landscape title one—still stands.
You said, “Breaking rules is why my life

is falling apart.” “But I love to read
your landscape title poems!” I said. You said,
“I truly doubt it.” I didn’t reply,
just watched you sign the check, because I knew
you wanted that to be the final word.
Yet to myself, I wished the biggest mistake

we could make was to break a silly rule.
I wished the worst thing anyone had ever done
was judge their friends purely for their beauty.
If only the most hurtful crime we committed
against those we love, those who love us back,
was to burn their most cherished possession.

Throwing Away the Alarm Clock by Charles Bukowski

my father always said, "early to bed and
early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy
and wise."

it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house
and we were up at dawn to the smell of
coffee, frying bacon and scrambled
eggs.

my father followed this general routine
for a lifetime and died young, broke,
and, I think, not too
wise.

taking note, I rejected his advice and it
became, for me, late to bed and late
to rise.

now, I'm not saying that I've conquered
the world but I've avoided
numberless early traffic jams, bypassed some
common pitfalls
and have met some strange, wonderful
people

one of whom
was
myself—someone my father
never
knew.

Lull

She sleeps in a bed of her own design
Made up of mistakes and mistrust
A mattress full of lust

Her sheets suffocate her in silent suspicion.

Intimacy gives way to interrogation
Faithfulness is lost in the fray

And there she lays, nay.

She lies!

Covering her truths
With stories sewn from threads

Of doubt and shame.

And what a shame
That on this frame
Seeds are no longer sown,
Yet tantrums are still thrown
Like a queen on her throne

Being taken to the guillotine.

And just like a dream
It seems
That all of these scenes

Flash by in an instant.

And while her head rolls against the pillow covers
I do the same around my shoulders

Acting as the soldier she wants me to be.

So I stand at attention while she pays me none

And I wait.

Feeling fully the weight of my decision
As I look from her face to that of the clock

And count down the seconds until she awakens again.

Nothing Big by Joseph Gordon-Levitt

Nothing big
Nothing grand
Nothing useful
Nothing planned
Nothing smart, or at least not very
Nothing revolutionary
Nothing urgent
Nothing hot
Maybe quiet
Maybe not
Nothing hard
Nothing wet
Nothing naked, well not yet
Nothing witty
Nothing wise
No big deal
No first prize
Nothing solemn
Nothing set
Nothing much to give or get
Nothing now but me and you
Nothing more, thanks, that'll do

These Are The Words That I Wish I Could Say To You In Person

I miss you in a way that I don’t really understand and can’t really express.

I miss the sound of your voice and the way you used to tell me you loved me.

I miss your eyes and how I could just stare into them for hours on end with no other purpose than to have you stare back into mine.

I miss your fingers and the way that they fit into my own.

I miss kissing your pink lips, and your soft hands, and your closed eyelids, and your smooth shoulders, and your fragile neck, and your flushed cheeks, and your scrunched nose.

I miss your eyebrows.

I miss how you would cook for me and how you let me cook for you, even though it rarely turned out well.

I miss how you used to cut my hair.

I miss the feeling of your body pressed against mine, thinking that I could die at that moment; happy that the last thing I knew was your touch, and in that your love.

I miss making you laugh, whether with me or at me.

I miss playing with your hair, and you playing with mine.

I miss cuddling to keep warm.

I miss waking up with you by my side, both of us tired and cranky, but still happy that we were together.

I miss arguing with you over the most trivial topics and being okay with losing because seeing you smile was worth defeat.

I miss singing to you.

I miss you.

I miss you.
I miss you.

I miss you so damn much.

I miss you like the air when I’m underwater.

I miss you like warmth when I’m freezing.

I miss you like light when it’s too dark to see.

I miss you like I hope you would miss me.

I miss you like time slipping away; seconds turning to minutes turning to hours turning to days.

I miss you like the months that have gone by.

I miss you like the years that we spent together.

I miss you like the decades that I’ve lived.

I miss you like the centuries I will never witness.

I miss you in a way that I will never understand and can never fully express.

I miss you so much that I wrote this for you, despite knowing that you will never read it.

In The Words Of Mr. Aubrey Graham

Thanks for keeping a secret

Thanks for the lift

Thanks for reconsidering

Thanks for not shooting

Thanks for the drink

Thanks for leading by example

Thanks for letting me think you’re mine

Thanks for passing me by

Thanks for noticing

Thanks for the last time we were together

Thanks for the first time we met

Thanks for nothing

Thanks for everything

Thank Me Later.

Manhattan On My Own

She is beautiful

Flawed in so many ways

Yet somehow still perfect and pristine

Or is it he that is handsome

His skyscrapers like my dreams

Up high but not so much as to be unreachable

The city that never sleeps

But in the blink of an eye can change lives

She is powerful

He is strong

They are many

Streets and avenues and boulevards and alleyways

All mazes leading to the end

But really just the beginning of an endless journey

From childhood to adolescence

From being an adult back to being a child again

Responsibilities taken over by reckless disregard

Like pirates of the East River, not of the Caribbean

Manhattan is my home

It is where my heart is

Even when I am not

It knows all of my secrets

And hides none of my shame

She dances with me into the night

And leaves me alone in my bed every morning

She makes me hate her

For how loud she can be sometimes

But when she is silent

I miss her most

Manhattan is New York

It may not be a county for the rich

Or the home of the pinstripes

It is not a place for Kings or Queens

But Manhattan is a haven for the hordes

For the whores and the who’s who

The famous and the almost famous

He is an artist using himself as the canvas

Sidewalks cracking showing his age

He puts himself on display

Never afraid of what others might think

She writes poetry

While performers give her the inspiration she needs to write

The station is her pen

And from it flows words like commuters

Never taking the time to pause

And look around at the genius they are passing by

Manhattan is life

Both new and old

Constantly shifting

Taking breaths away

And giving them back to new mothers

And fathers singing to their sons

So they can sleep soundly

The city is my brother

Kicking my ass when it needs to

But always there to pick me back up again

She is my lover

Teaching me ways to show affection

With little effect

And show love to all the haters

She takes my hand and leads me blindly down dark stairways

Into places I’ve never been

Making me take shots while she shoots me with her lens

Creating evidence of a night not soon to be forgotten

But surely not remembered the next afternoon

And soon she is gone

Only the bitter aftertaste of her smoky lungs remains

And the Manhattan that is my best friend comes along

To tell me that she wasn’t right for me anyway

So we go to the Park

With no need to park

And walk into the distance with no destination in mind

Just time and its many distractions in front of us

Until a new opportunity arises and a new week must begin

Then my friend becomes my enemy

And I race him every morning

And run from him every night

And sometimes Manhattan is just Manhattan

Nothing special about it

Just another city

Slowly dying

The fires of its soul burning out

But all it needs is one tiny spark

For it to explode

And for her to be alive once again

And she will be him

And he will be her

And I will be me

And Manhattan will always be

Lines Like These Are What Makes Shows Like "The Office" So Incredibly Unpredictable

In Japan, heart surgeon.

Number one.

Steady hand.

One day, Yakuza boss need new heart.

I do operation.

But, mistake!

Yakuza boss die.

Yakuza very mad.

I hide in fishing boat, come to America.

No English, no food, no money.

Darryl give me job.

Now I have house, American car, and new woman.

Darryl save life.

My big secret:

I kill Yakuza boss on purpose.

I good surgeon.

The best!

What Love Is Like by Piet Hein

Love is like

a pineapple,

sweet and

undefinable.

Live Like You're Dying by Chuck Palahniuk

In addition to exercising regularly and eating right, I make it a top priority to commit suicide every couple of years. Little girls might dream of the picture-perfect wedding, planning and envisioning the ideal bridal gown and the glorious release of white doves, but since I was little I've been planning my supreme self-murder. I've edited and honed the tableau: me as corpse with as little mess as possible. Nothing fancy, no shotguns or nooses, no swan dives from high windows of the Chrysler Building.

As a newspaper reporter, I was sent several times every winter to cover the same scene: a family found dead after they'd tried to heat their home by bringing a charcoal barbecue indoors. In each case, the carbon monoxide had suffocated them while they slept, and I'd visit the location with paramedics and police. And those dead nuclear families, Mom and Dad and the kids tucked into their beds, they looked . . . really great. So peaceful. Without any sign of rictus, vomitus, or spasm. Their faces so smooth and relaxed they might still be asleep.

If you ask me, that's the way to go. I'm probably prejudiced from living in a state where it's legal to ring down your own curtain, next door to another state where you can choose to die. Sometime I should tell you about being invited to a going-away party where the host drank phenobarbital. I didn't know a soul there, especially not the host, who was only weeks away from a natural death from colon cancer. A friend of a friend of a friend had phoned me in tears and begged me to escort her, because it seemed bad form and a touch pathetic to show up stag for such an event. It's amazing, but between Judith Martin and Emily Post and Amy Vanderbilt, no one has covered the etiquette for this situation--what to wear, what to bring as a bread-and-butter gift, how to address the dying stranger. What's worse is I didn't know about the Final Exit aspect of the party until the guests were asked to join hands and light candles. This was my blind date with death.

Self-euthanasia is major trend in the making. Each year in the United States, some 26,000 men die by their own hand, including some smarter, braver men than you and me. Hunter S. Thompson. Kurt Cobain. Spalding Gray. David Foster Wallace. These were men of infinite accomplishment, finances, and talent, and we will miss them. But if you're going to check out, you must first promise to take on a more difficult task. You'll have to wait 7 days, and in that last week of your life, you'll have to perform what I glibly refer to as the Three C's. Don't worry, the time will fly by. Like the final week at a job you hate, every moment will be gilded with nostalgia and sweetened with the knowledge that you're a dead man walking. The Ultimate Temp. The game's almost over, and you're just running out the clock.

The first C stands for Clean. Clean your bathroom. Clean your car. Do the laundry and scrub the grout. Pull out the refrigerator and wipe behind it. Wash the windows. Do everything. The second C stands for Cull. Ransack your files and discard everything except your most important papers. The same goes for your closets and memorabilia -- really, all your possessions. If you haven't looked at it recently, toss it. Donate it. Destroy it. Throw all your history and secrets into the garbage. Do the same with the aged contents of your medicine cabinet and kitchen. Also, spring for a really good haircut. Despite popular superstition, human hair does not grow beyond death, so you might as well look good. Treat yourself. Pamper, pamper, pamper; you have my permission.

Any man will tell you that it's not the big disasters that finish you. No, given an invasion by hostile space aliens or an attack of flesh-eating zombies, most guys will grab their coats and hats and run out to join the fray. Even a run-of-the-mill earthquake or forest fire constitutes a nice change of pace. Instead, what grinds us down are the parking tickets. The spoiled food in the back of the fridge. The dirty clothes at the bottom of the hamper that haven't seen daylight since 1995. Once you allow a critical mass of these petty annoyances to collect, you're sunk.

Regarding Culling, my point is: If you can shave, you can live.

The third C stands for Connect. This means contacting everyone you've known and saying something nice. No matter how much you hate them, let go of that bitterness. Identify some aspect of each person, something you've secretly admired or envied or coveted, and praise that something. Say how jealous you were of his career or happy marriage or a particular merino wool mock-turtleneck sweater.

Yes, this process feels like a huge humiliation, but what do you have to lose? Forget your self-pity. Forget your anger and defensiveness. Forgive everybody and forgive yourself. In another week they'll be gazing down into your casket, feeling just awful. So for now, throw them a bone. Give them a break.

Beyond that, fully imagine your death: the cozy warmth, the pleasant wooziness. The sound of your favorite film or music playing in the background. Envision your sparkling bathroom and empty filing cabinets. Then imagine the world without you. The same traffic jams and famines. The same political crap fights and your team never making the playoffs. People will forget you. Everyone will forget you. You're no Kurt Cobain, so just light your barbecue and toast a marshmallow. . . .

But if you've completed the Three C's, chances are good that you won't bother. Because by then you'll be surrounded by friends who now recognize you as a valuable, sensitive guy. Your oven will be clean, your car vacuumed. In the same way you procrastinated on your taxes, you can procrastinate on your death. And, at least for the moment, your hair looks . . . really great.

Say Yes by Andrea Gibson

when two violins are placed in a room

if a chord on one violin is struck

the other violin will sound the note

if this is your definition of hope

this is for you

the ones who know how powerful we are

who know we can sound the music in the people around us

simply by playing our own strings

for the ones who sing life into broken wings

open their chests and offer their breath

as wind on a still day when nothing seems to be moving

spare those intent on proving god is dead

for you when your fingers are red

from clutching your heart

so it will beat faster

for the time you mastered the art of giving yourself for the sake of someone else

for the ones who have felt what it is to crush the lies

and lift truth so high the steeples bow to the sky

this is for you

this is also for the people who wake early to watch flowers bloom

who notice the moon at noon on a day when the world

has slapped them in the face with its lack of light

for the mothers who feed their children first

and thirst for nothing when they're full

this is for women

and for the men who taught me only women bleed with the moon

but there are men who cry when women bleed

men who bleed from women's wounds

and this is for that moon

on the nights she seems hung by a noose

for the people who cut her loose

and for the people still waiting for the rope to burn
about to learn they have scissors in their hands

this is for the man who showed me

the hardest thing about having nothing

is having nothing to give

who said the only reason to live is to give ourselves away

so this is for the day we'll quit our jobs and work for something real

we'll feel for sunshine in the shadows
look for sunrays in the shade

this is for the people who rattle the cage that slave wage built

and for the ones who didn't know the filth until tonight

but right now are beginning songs that sound something like
people turning their porch lights on and calling the homeless back home

this is for all the shit we own

and for the day we'll learn how much we have

when we learn to give that shit away

this is for doubt becoming faith

for falling from grace and climbing back up

for trading our silver platters for something that matters
like the gold that shines from our hands when we hold each other

this is for the grandmother who walked a thousand miles on broken glass
to find that single patch of grass to plant a family tree

where the fruit would grow to laugh

for the ones who know the math of war

has always been subtraction

so they live like an action of addition

for you when you give like every star is wishing on you

and for the people still wishing on stars

this is for you too

this is for the times you went through hell so someone else wouldn't have to

for the time you taught a 14 year old girl she was powerful

this is for the time you taught a 14 year old boy he was beautiful

for the radical anarchist asking a republican to dance

cause what's the chance of everyone moving from right to left

if the only moves they see are NBC and CBS
this is for the no becoming yes

for scars becoming breath

for saying i love you to people who will never say it to us

for scraping away the rust and remembering how to shine

for the dime you gave away when you didn't have a penny

for the many beautiful things we do

for every song we've ever sung

for refusing to believe in miracles

because miracles are the impossible coming true
and everything is possible

this is for the possibility that guides us

and for the possibilities still waiting to sing

and spread their wings inside us

cause tonight saturn is on his knees

proposing with all of his ten thousand rings

that whatever song we've been singing we sing even more
the world needs us right now more than it ever has before

pull all your strings

play every chord

if you're writing letters to the prisoners

start tearing down the bars

if you're handing out flashlights in the dark

start handing out stars

never go a second hushing the percussion of your heart

play loud

play like you know the clouds have left too many people cold and broken

and you're their last chance for sun

play like there's no time for hoping brighter days will come

play like the apocalypse is only 4...3...2

but you have a drum in your chest that could save us

you have a song like a breath that could raise us
like the sunrise into a dark sky that cries to be blue
play like you know we won't survive if you don't
but we will if you do
play like saturn is on his knees
proposing with all of his ten thousand rings
that we give every single breath
this is for saying-yes

this is for saying-yes

Keep The Change

He stared at her from across the restaurant. Sitting at the bar, sipping his whiskey, while she patiently waited on undeserving patrons. He finished his drink and swirled the ice cubes in his glass until the bartender offered to fill it up again.
"No, thank you. I'll have a gin and tonic instead."
"Right away, sir."
"The name's Calvin."
"Right away, Calvin."
"What's her name?", he asked, pointing at the gorgeous, ginger-haired girl making her rounds.
"Oh, that's Robin."
"Red Robin, huh?", he chuckled.
"That's right. But you're out of luck, Calvin. She's already seeing someone."
"And who might that be?"
"You're looking at him."
"Is that so? Well, good for you."
"Yes it is, Calvin. It is very good."
"You know what? Forget the gin and tonic. I'll take another whiskey."
"Right away, Calvin."
"And you can call me 'Sir'."
"Right away, Sir."

On The Air

We haven't talked in close to two months now
But I still hear your voice
every thursday
from 12 to 2
as I listen to your radio show
With each song that plays
I imagine us together
laying still as the records spin
Eyes closed,
ears open,
mouths moving with the lyrics
as they escape from our lips
And for those two hours
everything stops
and I feel normal
I feel inspired
I feel happy
And life is okay again,
if only for those two hours
After each track finishes
I hold my breath
in anticipation of hearing your soft voice
awkwardly introduce the next one
And it is always a great choice
It is always a pleasure to listen to
And as that second hour passes far too quickly
I listen intently to the final songs
and create a mental playlist,
an imagined soundtrack
for the week to come
Until the next thursday
and the next midnight;
the next chance to hear your voice
and the songs you have in store
The songs you play for everyone
Hopefully, even me

So Close

"I had wanted to make the drive up to Cornish, New Hampshire, to see J.D. Salinger since a junior-high teacher scolded me for using curse words in my writing. The assignment was titled, "What Thanksgiving means to me," and in the course of 250 words I managed to employ no fewer than 20 "jesus christs" and half as many "fucks." The powers that were didn't let me off when I explained that I wasn't really taking the Lord's name in vain—hence the lower case lettering—and the "fucks" were art."

http://www.gq.com/blogs/the-q/2010/01/i-went-to-jd-salingers-house.html

Shift

I've driven miles to see you.
  Spent hours on the road.
  Crossing bridges in front of me
and burning those in the past.
  White lines speeding by
like cocaine on the darkest nights.
  Streetlights showing the way
to a girl that I used to know.
  Pumping the brakes
to slow my heartbeat,
as the thought of you
accelerates
the blood flowing through my veins.
  Keeping my eyes open
as time takes its toll.
  And I pay the price
that only lovers can afford;
Leaving me empty handed
absent minded
and blurry eyed.
  Hoping that the distance will
not prove to be too much,
and me not enough.

All Is Not Fair...

be careful when you fall in love
especially when you are young

don't give away your heart too easily

but don't keep it all to yourself either

expect to make mistakes

try to forgive yourself

anticipate the fights

but be grateful for making up

you are going to cry at some point

your partner will too

never hide your tears

cherish every kiss

every hug

every holding of hands

don't make promises you cannot keep

don't keep yourself from making promises

always mean what you say

make love when you want

not only when you can

and don't take cuddling for granted

those are the moments you will miss the most

showering together can be both the best and worst decision you will make

you will learn to love it

if you are lucky enough to be in love

then be sure to give more than you receive

don't be selfish

unless it's together

and even then it should never be about you

go dancing

if only for one night

if only for one song

you'll understand why it's so important afterwards

cook together at your own risk

you will have to go shopping

there is no way around it

as much as you want it

and as hard as you work for it

you will never be perfect

that is a good thing

you two may not last forever

you may not even last a night

but the time that you will have shared together is all that matters

you can read these words

you can try to apply them to your life

but know this

you will forget everything the moment you stare into that person's eyes

and start falling

hoping that you'll be caught

and when you finally land in those gentle arms

you won't be afraid of this thing called love anymore

and frankly that's all that matters

The End of the 00s: Made in New York, by Joel Johnson

"I had a short affair with a Chinese acrobat who had formerly been a lawyer, until one evening I ended up at a birthday party with a man who revealed himself to be her other partner in such a way that it thrummed every insecurity I had. I looked him in the eye, picked up his whisky and drank it in one shot, set it down in front of him, and said "Happy Birthday." I then went home and cried."

http://www.theawl.com/2009/12/the-end-of-the-00s-made-in-new-york-by-joel-johnson