Exit

He looks to his pocket
to quench his malnourished blood
and what little pride is left,
after hours of panhandling change
with an empty coffee cup.

Looking to his pocket

he finds only a hole

and remembers the day
at CVS when he shoved

some marker
into his pocket with haste
as not to be seen
and didn't realize

he ripped its seam.

All of this absent

on the cardboard sign

he wears that reads "EXIT"

without the word.

Why I can't sleep

I think it's just because
I want and need to be
with you, my friend.
You're all I think about,
see, feel and hope to hold and touch.
Such a large part of my life,
you've become,
that my body has come to need
you
to be sufficient.
You simply make me
who I am
and have tremendously aided
me
to become the person
I am,
which will in turn,
somehow,
enable me to be
this person
I've never been in a hurry
to become.
I'm finally here
and things are going well;
so I'm excited, anxious and overwhelmed,
for once,
about the positive possibilities,
about our lives, together--
my life with you.
So when you tell me to
spray lavender,
drink chamomile tea
or warm milk
(forget counting sheep)--
know that it's with
only you
that I
can soundly
rest,
if not sleep
to dream,
to wake beside,
to watch us grow,
to believe and read
our two stories
in one
together.

P.S. You're the reason I smile.

Random Thought of The Day

While trying to explain something I can't quite grasp, I jotted down an attempt to articulate my thoughts:

I feel it’s something inherently inside all of us: the urge to know, that incessant need to explore possibilities not only out there in the unknown but also to draw on the potential somehow laying dormant inside of us.

What do you know about that?

August 27th

I feel like tomorrow's Christmas

but there are no presents

to unwrap,

no lights strung

on railings or gutters--

nor does the distinct smell

of winter

warm the air.

Instead, it's August

and we'll wake to check

the island's weather

because someone

named a storm

to rain on

our parade.

July 16

I knew it was a strange place, when the water tasted like the air smelled. The heat is thick in its stench, hitting me in the face when I walked out the door. It’s one thing to visit a place and not want to live there but quite another living and working there because it’s somewhere else. These thoughts bounced from synapse to synapse, as I lay half-nude in my one bedroom apartment. The mid-July humidity banging down my door, after chasing me up the stairs only to find it had seeped through the screens of my windows.

This place to hand my hat without a coat rack in sight and the shirt torn off my back. I lay awake many nights and think about the cottage. There I would look out over the water as flat as glass. Then, I take notice of the moon, for which I am grateful, without which I could not see the deer walk across the pebbled New England beach without a care in the world or fear of being sought out or followed.

I would sit for hours if the no-see-ums would just let me be. Another reason to light up a secret cigarette, some may claim. Even when the tide has gone out and the mucky sands are exposed, the smell of the air off the salt pond is fresh as if it were protected by the surrounding trees. I’ve often despised the smell of accompanied by a sycamore tree and at the cottage there are none. Perhaps this is just another comparative ideal for me to separate this from that, here from there, foreign to familiar. Comfort and peace of mind are found in our own ways. And for many who find themselves somewhere other than that ideal attempt to create a space, “a room of one’s one.”

Ripper

Tonight, I saw an outstretched slug,

for the first time in my life.

It had a peculiar beauty that was quite appealing—

peppered with black and white spots like a bratwurst—

the hot black pavement its coals.

It moved slowly and sizzled in the summer sun.

That reminds me:

the last slug burned into my memory

turned colors and shriveled up

when my brother sprinkled salt all over it.

But that was years ago

and now it makes me wonder

what an unsalted slug tastes like. 

Doers and Dreamers

"Failure's hard, but success is far more dangerous. If you're successful at the wrong thing, the mix of praise and money and opportunity can lock you in forever." Po Bronson

How often do we find ourselves sacrificing and putting off our own dreams to make others’ possible? Why must our passions remain hobbies while others’ are dustless and well-oiled realities? These thoughts I entertain often, for I am a dreamer. I, certainly, do not subscribe to the group who says there are two types of people, however. These two groups, of course, are made up of doers and dreamers. Dreamers would not be dreamers without doers and so forth. But who’s to say where to draw the line, that is, if one must create yet another construct, classification, or division.

My siding (there we go again) is that many often dream while doing and do while dreaming. This, of course, would include the many individuals who have “fallen into” something or feel they have otherwise “settled,” at least that is how they feel inside—a dialogue with their repression, angst, and denial. Self is important in this respect but not to the extent where we are unable to step outside ourselves to consider the reality we may, or may not, feel a part of. Many focus on asking themselves, “What about me?” instead of promoting the search for self and identity in questioning, “Who am I?”

In any case, if one group was to consider the other group as, say, “dreamers” than would that group be labeled, by default, the doers? And, would these dreamers be considered selfish because they feel they are more in tune with their self and identity? Are doers, then, worried about themselves and thereby take certain paths of actions that enable them to do instead of dream? Who knows where the sure route leads. Who’s to say that one is correct and the other flawed.

Peering into contemporary times with a careful perspective, I would not necessarily assert that celebrities and media sensations have replaced the bards, artists, and thespians of the past. Nor would I assume that the gladiators of great Roman times are now the professional athletes of today’s stadiums. But, if either were true, it would not be hard to see that the doers of history were very much dreamers. They say that the annals of history rarely record the lives and works of so-called dreamers and those who chose to stand-by—but I wouldn’t be too sure of that. 

Hookie

As my eyes drifted from the proposal,

I caught Frank's eyes. 

He, too, was not paying attention.

My eyes continued to 

fall

to the arm of my blazer

where I noticed a white feather. 

I closed my eyes, 

for only a moment

and the scent of vanilla and mild lavender

rushed into my nostrils--

the smell of your pink t-shirt sheets.

The feather, 

from your down comforter, 

imbedded comfortably in my suit linen--

nowhere to go, nothing missed, and one of many.

Yet, one of a fortunate few

laying nestled next to your body--on top,

beneath, and surrounding you

on your deserved day out of work. 

Your feather was still there, 

where I opened my eyes

Lost in yet another presentation 

of suit culture.

I dropped my pen on the floor

and plucked the feather, 

as not to be seen. 

I spent the next twenty-minutes

holding my capped pen loosely in my right hand

and your feather

in my left hand

closely to my cheek. 

[Untitled]

An elderly man,

bulbous nose and belly 

in mismatched sweats--

absent of drawstring 

or any form of elasticity

to benefit his pride--

showed his wrinkly ass to most of 

Penn Station.

Hobbled along, 

a folder of x-rays in his hands

and a walker-type cane in the other--

4-pronged like the clawed feet

of the furniture at my grandma's.

Everything about this man said "Help."

A hand down the stairs, 

a finger gesturing the direction to the elevator

instead,

or an extra arm to hold his x-rays

while he pulled up his pants.

More attention, rather, was paid

to the homeless man

who scurried around the station like a rat.

He, however, was looking

for his left shoe. 

Lunch Break Bliss

It’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve been living in New York on a somewhat more permanent basis. As my pull towards the beach and oceanfront cannot be denied, I have found a place to sit and reflect in the same way I do in Narragansett. The beach sands are much coarser here and the rocks are covered by new shades of seaweed. The kelp, uprooted and relocated to the beach, also follows suit.

It’s rainy today but I will not let the droplets coming in my opened car window bother me. The breeze off the water consoles the gloom in the gray skies above. Despite the rain, quite a few boats are being launched from the nearby ramp. Although this bay town may not have the reputation to rely on commercial fishing for livelihood, I see many fishermen everyday.

I sigh and tell myself that it’s not the same; not even close. But at least I have this spot unusual as it may seem.

The sounds of the passing commuter trains coupled with the occasional boat whistle and the activity on the bay is quite amusing. Although I hear for horns today, the screeching sounds of the trains breaking trumps the locale. There is a beach across the bay with sands of a different shade, surrounded by enormous mansions reminiscent of Newport and Jamestown. There are many gated communities and driveways that stretch over a quarter mile.

For all of the writing I’ve been doing lately, between the book, proposals, and marketing materials, I have certainly neglected the pen for my own devices. But this place, with the docks, gulls, breeze, and crossing fishing boats, will provide, at least, lunch break bliss.

[Untitled]

broken lampshades

on unplugged lamps.

unscrewed light bulbs,

on-turned switch.

unfinished paintings,

rivers unabridged.

leaves lie unchanged,

while seasons have come

and gone.

the fall brings a certain warm

followed by cobwebs, mice, 

and a dust monster.

he lives in the boiler room

behind sometimes unlatched doors.

he is quite shy--

this painter with bad lighting.

Rearview

You weren't there this morning,

when I woke

but remnants of your face shone 

in a corner of my eye.

But then again,

that could've been the moon

off in the sky,

premature,

or late afternoon;

It shared your space,

in an attempt to steal

your much deserved attention.

I saw you through the window outside

there

by the building

before your afternoon break

hazy, through the humidity of late July.

You wore orange, perhaps oceana, 

certainly pink later on

when I adjusted

my visor in the car.

On the drive down, you blinded me

then followed

in pursuit of the night

when darkness accompanies

and our rearview bliss is hours away.

For now you visit Harold in Tokyo.

For Now

Another night comes and I've still yet to sleep

under the covers

to pull at the sheet

tucked so neatly into the crevice

between

the mattress and boxspring.

The dark-blue fleece throw

unfolded and spread out

atop the comforter--

quilted, patched, and floral--

folded up again

to be placed on an empty trunk

at the foot of this bed

in the morning.

A bed that is not my own

fills some space in a corner

in the basement.

That's where I'll lay for now.

I think I feel the ceiling panels calling,

although I cannot count-to-crack their code

of small holes

in the dark

of this cold room.

Blue In Green

Seeing that I will be “moving” to New York under more permanent circumstances in the immediate future, I suppose it hasn’t really sunk in. That is, until today. Perhaps, it seems as though my finding a job is somewhat anti-climatic. Although I’ve always wanted to get further away than Fairfield, CT, where I went for undergrad, I have some reservations about leaving Rhode Island. Not so much for Warwick, in particular, but more so Narragansett, the beach house, and familiar waters. I went there today, unexpectedly, as I had to get my laptop serviced in South County. If you’re familiar with the area, and the Rhode Island logic of making the “trip” worth it, even though it’s only 20 minutes away without traffic, of course I had to keep driving to Route 108. That’s where the beach house. Yes, the one alluded to in “Indian Rock Farm Road” and “Boston Whaler Blues” http://leaningtowerofsuburbia.blogspot.com/

I drove down the private dirt road, keeping it under 20 per request of the signs telling me to “Slow Down You Move Too Fast” and “Watch Out For Playing Children and Crossing Animals.” In the summer months, the road is dry from the heat and dusty from the elevated traffic. Today, perhaps as an after effect of the winter snows and subsequent melts, the road was quite smooth, although wet, and quiet when not bumpy. As today was overcast, the sky served as an appropriate backdrop for the gloom of leafless trees, dead foliage, absent grape vines, and pushed-over eel grass. I can remember as a child we would go down there as a family during the winter months, even if just once during the off season. There used to be a small deli, next to a small house and farm, where we would buy a rotisserie chicken or two on the way down Route 4. My parents and grandparents would also speculate that the family who ran the farm owned the deli. Either way, the deli is no longer there but the small white-almost-stucco color square building remains as, I would assume from the sign, a place that sells “ROSES.”

We would pick up fallen branches and sometime kick the dead seaweed that the tide dragged up on the lawn into the woods. I can remember peeing in an empty rust-ridden black and yellow Chock Full O’Nuts can, even though my brother and I had the necessary equipment to go behind the tool shed. The steps up to the deck would creek, the third one up, the first one down. The faded two-by-four railings often matched the color of the sky. From the outside, some people might be instilled with an eerie sense of absence the winter months bring to a seasonal tourist town. Not to me, it’s so much more than that.

We’d make our way into the house and it would be freezing. More often than not, we’d have to bring in some plastic chairs from outside to sit on because the couch cushions were put away in trash bags and taped up so the mice would not ruin them. Long before my grandparents invested in a gas stove, we would make a fire inside the black iron stove with kindling and the driest pieces of driftwood we could find, often browsing through the newspapers left in the summer months for just that purpose, before twisting them in knots and adding them to the fire. There we’d sit, typically without a table and sometimes unfolding the aluminum foil the chickens came as drop cloths for the thin beige carpet.

Even then, and despite the temperature difference between the area closest to the wood burning stove and the porch, I would just want to look through the windows out to the access road that leads to Galilee, the ferries, and Great Island. I can remember being scolded for wanting to lift the screens up to get the best possible view through fogged up panes of glass. That same window, the one closest to the back door to the deck, holds with it a memory of being started by a praying mantis and the window falling on my thumbnail as a result. Oftentimes, when I catch myself biting that fingernail, I remember how long it too to grow back that year. In a weird way, maybe that’s why I like biting them so much.

Today was different, as I felt quite alone. Two swans were out in the middle of the pond—too far off for me to see them clearly, but surely they were swans. There were no deer on the drive in. It’s not uncommon to see at least one, especially at this time of year. The ospreys, too, were missing. The water was still, even though there was a slight breeze, contributing calm to my pondering. Even in the on-and-off cool drizzle of mid-March, I had an almost uncontrollable urge to quahog. I even took a casual jog back to where I parked my car to check what types of clothes or blankets I had to console my would-be shivers and stink of salt pond muck. Last summer alone and this is not a boast, as I simply love getting quahogs, I must have gotten over 1,000 with my bare hands and feet. I love doing it and, as a process, it’s quite hard to describe. It’s as if my hunter-gatherer instincts kick in, I set a goal, and I’m in the water for hours. As kids, my grandparents and parents would try, unsuccessfully, to wave us in. During low tides, particularly after a full-moon, we were able to walk straight across the pond with the water never going past our chests, onion and potato sacks half full with clams, in one hand, and the other holding our bathing suits up, as we’d often stuff the pockets with other mud-gems such as conches, green-glass Coca-Cola bottles, and arrowheads.

These thoughts in mind, I strolled the shore looking at deer and coyote tracks in the sand. Picking up an occasional suspected arrowhead and skipping it into the blue-in-green water after it failed the quality control inspection. I was mad at myself for not having my digital camera in the car but managed to take several pictures of the pond, the shore, and what little wake there was. My younger sister and I have had many conversations about making enough money to be able to afford keeping the beach house around, in hopes that our kids might be able to commit similar experiences to memory. I would be lying if I told you that I don’t think about this nearly everyday.

Scary Teen Dating Movie

There I sat with scissors-
of all things,
thinking they wouldn't penetrate
my skin to the vein.
Not unlike that punk chick
in Empire Records
who shaved her head
and made an attempt at her wrist
using a pink Lady Bic.

Predictable,

Life is now scripted like that
the placement of a Counting Crows song
in a sex scene of Cruel Intentions.

Colorblind,

my wrist comes undone,
like the pants of those twenty-somethings
playing high school seniors.

Cold Feet, Courage, and Risk

I’m home in Rhode Island for the first time in six weeks. I suppose that amount of time isn’t too great compared to months away at school or years away in the military. Fortunately, I hope I will never experience the latter. As I sit and type, I’m drinking a glass of tap water which is quite delicious and refreshing compared to the tap water in New York. I’ve noticed a distinct taste in the ice cubes as well. Although my family is a mere fraction of Irish descent, the house is filled with the scent of corned beef, cabbage, and soda bread—not one of my favorite meals. But, after all, it is something that I will always associate with being at my parents’ house. The smell of the sheets on my own bed and the way they are tucked under the mattress in a way that only a mother can do without effort. In high school, especially on a cool almost spring day, I would purposely leave the windows open in my room to air out the stench of winter, smoky clothes, and my brother’s laundry which is, more often than not, strewn about the cold faded hardwood floor. More than that, for me, there is nothing more comfortable than getting into bed and under the sheets without socks on, wrestling with the sheets a little bit, and laying there with cold sheets on my feet. I know this isn't normal--but this is me, the real Jimmy.

Out in the kitchen, I can hear one of the black labs playing with a rawhide bone and rather than annoying it is somewhat soothing to know exactly the source that unique noise is coming from. The house is always noisy, whether it’s 5am or 11pm. There are sounds that I am so used to, even if they are, at times, bothersome.

Another few days will pass and I will head back to New York. It has been quite an interesting experience traveling back and forth for almost eight months, although I would never wish the circumstances of my extended vacation from full-time work on myself or anyone. Looking back over the past several months, I feel I wasted so much time applying for jobs, researching on the Internet, procrastinating, feeling the urge to clear the visited pages history, and meticulously organizing the folders and files on the Mac desktop. Not once did I just go to the beach, watch the surf, and write. Not once did I exercise in my basement gym, also called “the dungeon.” Although, I have spent countless hours going for walks, playing with Jack the seven pound wonder, and worrying myself to death about finding employment, I have managed to realize quite a bit about myself and the person I am trying to be.

I have managed to set up some blogs, including this one, for my poetry, random thoughts, ponderings, digressions, rants, and social commentary but I feel I have neglected this and other resources in all that time out of work. Perhaps, I am being too critical of myself. For the past few months, I have been trying see the positive side of things. A couple of weeks ago, I had yet another job interview in NYC. This time, it was for a position at an advertising agency. The interview, I felt, went fairly well and I was looking forward to hearing back from the company. Rather than taking the F or V uptown to Penn, I decided to walk, seeing that it was only 11 blocks or so. Naturally, I was thinking. And, as I tend to do, I was questioning what it is I really want out of life (which may or may not have influenced my writing the previous blog). Due to my decision to walk to the train station to catch a train back to Long Island, I managed to miss the train by 3 minutes. I thought to myself, no big deal, I will just get a coffee. Starbucks, yada yada yada, $4 later. Much better than my delicious, although overpriced, latte was the insightful quote printed on the recycled cardboard cup, “Failure's hard, but success is far more dangerous. If you're successful at the wrong thing, the mix of praise and money and opportunity can lock you in forever.” This quote is from a book written by Po Bronson What Should I Do With My Life?. Of course, I didn’t know the title of the book till I went “home” to Google the quote and author. Although I did attempt purchasing this book at two stores, I have yet to buy and read the book. Nonetheless, I found it so intriguing and fitting to my current predicament. It turns out that this book is not incredibly old but pretty damn old; recent enough to be in print but old enough to not be available in stores. Although I have done some research regarding commentary on, and reviews of, the book, I feel the title of the book speaks volumes on its own.

What should I do with my life? What should anyone do with their life? Either way, why? What are your motivations? More importantly, what are my motivations and desires? Do my desires stand to count for anything anymore? Why do I torment myself with all of these questions and why all the time? Essentially, and quite matter-of-factly, we question things in an attempt to determine or understand things about ourselves and the choices we make, have made, and will make. As I mentioned, I looked into the book, without purchasing it. A section of the book I’ve become particularly interested in reading concerns “Courage and Risk.” Certainly, these two things are tied to one another in many obvious and not-so-obvious ways. To make some sense of the point I am trying to make, I wanted to share some lines from this section of the book.
“You can make decisions to pad your wallet. You can make decisions to maintain proper appearances. You can make decisions because they're safe or predictable. You can make decisions because it'll keep your parents off your back. You can make decisions simply to delay making harder decisions.”

In particular, and especially, when we are “young adults” (whatever that means) we are forced to make decisions e.g. work while in high school, get good grades, apply to colleges near home, apply to colleges far from home, choose a school, choose friends, choose a major, and choose a career? We are often asked to make decisions that are not necessarily well-informed or guided in any particular way. But once you graduate college, it is very much up to you. Now, I’m not just addressing this because I experienced a very long period of unemployment after receiving my Master’s and losing my job, but more so because Po Bronson wrote this book at an early age, previous to 25 years of age, I believe. This book is so interesting because Bronson is asking himself the same question as he asked the individuals he profiled for this book. “What should I do with my life?” Now, Bronson is a bestselling author and I would speculate that he was few doubts about what he has done with his life.

I have not achieved a great realization about myself because of my research on this book. (As I mentioned, I have intentions to, but have not yet read this book). Over the past few months, however, I have been writing two books. More so, I am writing two books because someone took a chance on me and someone saw that I had potential and the inherent ability necessary to perform such a task. Whether any of that is true, I am actually quite happy. Have I neglected writing what I want as a result? Yes. Although unemployed, I must admit that I am the happiest and most positive I have been in many years; perhaps, even prior to my undergraduate studies. I have not yet returned to “full-time” work or the “9 to 5 turned 8 to 7 grind,” and do not resent anyone for the situation I have had to face everyday for nearly eight months. Even if I find my “dream job,” whatever that may be, I feel I will always, in one way or another, be looking for something to say “I do…” Along with Bronson's words and other sources, I have realized that for once I am happy and, I feel, it’s because I feel I’ve not only found, but already knew, what I wanted to do with my life.

Delicious Strife

I ask my God daily as He’s
Testing me constantly
For what deeper purpose do I serve if not to survive through pain and disappointment?
Testing me, I know I’m not alone
For I have strife and trials for He wishes for me to continue to a better day
He tests me as I’m assigned tasks and expectations.

She tests me
As I count my blessings
I note my residing angel for she protects and inspires me
She tests me and pulls me into a reality otherwise hard to swallow
This, I’ve been given then
It is love, I find
Given to me to pass along, I gather.

They test me
With false hope, saying,
“Perhaps you’ll like the rain elsewhere,
For it never changes or calms.”
Far beyond the tingling sensation in delicious strife
We’ll find even heaven’s peace may not be as so desired.

040804

I lay awake as the full moon glows light on my face,
I’ve been here before, an almost all too familiar place.
So dark and curious the sky, blue-black entrapping the star,
Those midnight spotlights seem so distant so far.

I awake seems two hours slept
Before the sun rose I heard the lonely song,
Beckoning in my thoughts of promises left kept.
From the start I knew the source, a bird where his lyrics belong
Lacked I slept, for things must be reassured,
Reminding me of the things past endured.

The anxiety renews, as surely does the morning sun.
I listen to the sounds, as the bird becomes one with a choir,
Of all things I dream and have kept unsung,
I’m alone again for choral observers silence and retire.

Toenail Clippings and Bellybutton Lint

The dryer creates its pilly wool sweaters,
as the faulty zipper covers only
the part you don’t want zipped.
Not unlike the deodorant that stains your undershirt
rendering you a perspiring Smurf.
Flaky hair gel dried up looks like dandruff
on the shoulder of a thirteen hour day.
The sweat in your brown shoes smells of
the booze you drank last night
coming out to haunt your newly found sobriety.
It all tastes good in some peculiar way,
as you pick the lint from your bellybutton
and wonder how it gets there.
While the toenail stuck in your teeth
sadly only marks acquired flexibility.

Counterfeit

It’s been almost two years
but it seems like last month
although I don’t remember
that expensive week of partying
I knew you were all there.
Perhaps not afraid, as I was,
about what the world would
make of me.

It’s been quite a while
since Greg broke my leg,
JJ had optimism about parking,
Alison’s dad bought us drinks,
Billy borrowed the maroon shitbox
to take to the Gap,
that random guy started up his
tow truck and fixed Cesca’s car
at 3 in the morning,
Beth used the couch inappropriately
and likewise Fal in addition to the
floor, wall, poster, and garbage can.
But that was my fault
‘cause I locked the door.

Too many times
I’ve chosen to be passive
and not dwell, for once,
on what we all were,
what we once had,
and the naïve egotism
that ran through our veins
not knowing what would
happen after we crossed
that counterfeit stage.

But there you are
and here I am—
What to make of it
I’m not sure.
The least I can do is make
sure you all know
that I think about
every wasted morning
became afternoon slept-in
and thought maybe
I should’ve been awake,
slowed down and enjoyed
the life everyone else
was living.