I bought you this grinder, just in case you want to be cool– or whatever.

Soul Flower,

These sore eyes of mine

Are seeing clear as day

My love,

When you kiss me,

I am rattled to the bone,

On the cheeks,

On your lips

From your hips, up your spine

To know your body is to love your body,

And I’ve always smoked to study

Roll another one,

And relax…,

Kyle Rittenhouse is crying

My 40-something punk rock woman of a roommate is using a small rabbit vibrator on her clitoris downstairs

Our 2 black cats are meowing at my door; I did not finish my FreeBird’s World Burrito Dinner

There is a crisis at the Belarus-Poland border as the temperatures of our hemisphere meet an autumnal drop

A bride-to-be is consoling her fat, depressed mess of a bridesmaid on 6th Street outside of Dirty Bar, falsely convincing her that a man will give his heart to her if own her own she can’t even manage to can’t even find her own

Those small urban leaves simply brush along the ground with no rhyme & no reason

A middle aged woman has been red-pilled into a delusional reality; after the paradoxical stress of an utterly verdict-less Long Island life she is inside the bubble.

Unable to understand the complexity of the human condition:

“It’s always the Jews!”

A new behavioral ecosystem across every culture;

She shares a post on Instagram claiming Obama is an African Muslim & Kamala Harris is his side hoe.

A homeless man sleeps under the interstate

My mother is asleep. Her children, now far from the nest, journey on through life. She looks forward to life, accepting the good, the bad, and the ugly with delight & gratitude. I cannot disagree with her behavioral manifestations of her beliefs, I can relate and express immense gratitude for her root philosophy.

I never could tell her I love her enough, & I still feel uncomfortable saying it, knowing I have a deeply complex way of communicating it.

A mode of communication often misunderstood and rooted in my own insecurities. I just want to be able to feel okay with love

Jack may be on a fire call. Or asleep. I am proud of him, although I do think he’s fallen victim to Long Island conservatism. I am critical in a loving way towards Jack. I’d help him bury a body, unless he was trying to have sex with it. Necrophilia is where I draw the line, pal. He isn’t speaking to me right now, as my stupid mouth spilled way too many beans. Legumes are the source of our disagreement. I know eventually we’ll speak. I will love that broski forever

And if I speak of Jack, I feel obligated to address the OG Homie. No longer the Lemon, the Lemon Squeezer. 100 Grecs, Michael Corlione *trust me at the top it isn’t lonely*, Michael C. Greco. My brother, you are an Ace of Spades and you bring me balance

A young boy is abducted off a street in Kansas by child traffickers. He’ll spend his next 9 years being passed around circles of perverted demons, used as a sex slave against his will until he dies at 16 of a fentanyl overdose. He escaped

I, however, have nowhere left to run…

a live, working piece

@nohoesneruda

October 2019

The bodega on the corner of Myrtle Avenue & Broadway ran an under the table illegal drug operation for about 6 years. From K2-laced marijuana cartridges to Afghan heroin, these Turkish lads gracefully blindfolded the 83rd precinct of the NYPD from the nature of their side hustle with delectable baklava and friendly, hospitable service.

A euphoric haze danced in front of our young friend’s eyes. He had successfully forced his way into Bushwick, despite the gentrified neighborhood’s rising rent prices and his lack of adequate income to even afford city rent. An opportunistic fellow with the great pleasure of a naive counterpart to jumpstart the move from their neighboring suburban hellscape of Long Island, Mark Martinez seemed to have landed squarely on his feet along the Brooklyn sidewalk.

Mark stepped off the stairs from the elevated train sporting his usual outfit of black jeans, a black leather jacket, a pair of Doc Martens and the aviator gas station sunglasses that fit his narrow face just right. A bona fide try hard, a pseudo-intellectual dumb fuck, and frankly…

an asshole. 

He jaywalks to the liquor store with a bounce in his step, where a crackhead stands squarely in front of the counter yelling at the old store owner.

An edible takes Mark’s head by his horns, his mind begins to flare off thoughts as the light refractions grow longer from the fluorescents

Crackhead McGee (for all intents & purposes) is still rambling in a shout about the prices of two 40 ounces he now waved violently amidst his wingspan. 

In reality, the lights had slowly dimmed with every night Mark stopped in for a different cheap whiskey or wine. Mark, however, now has his hand along his brow as if he were shielding his glassy, bloodshot eyes against a beating sun.

Crackhead McGee proceeds to smash the bottles he’d been contesting the cashier with, and storms out with a cloud of slurs in his path.

Mark, rattled by the noise, ditches his errand & bolts his Chuck Taylor’s out of the corner liquor store.

Met by a resounding northeastern thunderstorm, he runs across the busy street, dodging a biker and a family. Into his building, up 4 stairs, and into the kitchen.

***

The term “scatterbrained” is, well, one way to describe a mixed up mind…

i just thought you should know

that you’ve been on my mind.

and that i don’t like it either. 

sometimes i look up at the moon and wish we had spent more nights with our eyes open.

when the cool winds would blow over from the hills

i think of the sea, a shoreline

a sunset with you

even if you can’t recall, or if you’ve sold those paintings for a new perspective

i remember your head on my chest too

barely a man, I held more grace than my waking hands could grasp

you’d breathe deeply, your touches tender & gentle

and i’d simply do my best

to synchronize my cowboy heart’s pulse with your sweet head

and in the stillness

I’d lie awake for hours in your room

thinking of the million ways i could throw this love away

while i burned the bridge between us

i still think of your mom’s car

the one you’d drive me in before i got my license

i remember the melodies that made you smile

the tracks we’d skip “as not to go there”

the songs where your eyes would well up

but you couldn’t tell me why

you are on my every playlist

and no shuffle button could erase you

my album on repeat

i hear you in the mornings when i need to get myself together for the day

that comfort which clasps me in the fleeting memories of your arms

you still have my sweatshirts

my brothers see you in them when you’re out with your friends

i don’t wonder when i’ll see you in them for myself

i only wonder when you’ll throw it away

sometimes when i’ve turned the wrong corner too quickly

or have once again fell preoccupied with my thoughts

i can almost mistake a stranger for your body

and it is in that brief moment once again-

illustrious & golden, you light a fire in my chest

but merely the flick

of a flame that could never fare the winds

of my breezy, barren heart

a chill

and i am reminded of how torturous time can be

i just thought you should know.