i don’t know who you are
but i want to kiss you at union station
i want to fall in love with you in denver
i want to see the red lights of the city
reflected in your eyes
i want to discuss philosophy
and whatever you want to discuss
with you over egg cream sodas and pbrs
at leela’s

i want to dance with you
in a back alley of sixteenth street
away from the mild herds of tourism
and the thousand atms
away from the god forsaken walgreen’s
i want to lay with you in skyline park
i want to smoke a joint
down to the roach with you in
the glass elevators of the tabor center
i want to get lost in your words
and lose my wallet somewhere in the city
anywhere in denver
if i lose my whole outfit i’ll still
be glad that i met you

i want to complain about
the city construction with you
i want to wait in the drunken
shifting line of the 2 am sixteenth street
taco bell with you
and eat bean burritos
and regret tacos

i want to share a flask with you
on a bus bench with you
with no intention of ever taking
the bus

i want to die in denver with you
i want to anything in denver with you
i want to
anything in anywhere
with you

i want you to stop hiding
behind street signs and in the
back room of city liquor stores
i want to see you

i don’t know what i want
and it’s unfair of me to think
that you would
i don’t even know you yet

shit i’m drunk
shit this poem
union station
you and me
9 am sharp
oh man
let’s make that noon

whatever works for you

that sounds good



As you guys may have noticed, I’m switching over to weekly postings. As much as I love posting daily, it’d be unfair of me to myself and to you guys to pretend that I can keep up with the pace. Thanks for reading.



and it pours down my throat
like jesus molasses
pioneers heading west
towards the belly of the beat
east meets west
but i’m slipping

american honey
how do you dance the way you do?
the way you slide down that fireman’s pole
sound the alarm
calling all cars
this country
is a corvette
making the jump to warp speed
where we’re going
we don’t need roads

american honey
stay the night with me
in a jim morrison dream
we can fight the nightmare hangover
in the musky morning

let’s dance to destruction
a line dance
in a three-dimensional world
a house of cards in space
and american honey
your sweat is so sweet
and you are the last girl we will ever
stay the night with
wake your indian ancestors in their graves
with ghosts songs
and the bump of raves

american honey
your curves mimic colfax avenue
san francisco hills
in a red white and blue bikini
that kills

american honey
dollars hanging on you like a christmas tree
white men flock to you like a drug
the hypnotic way you swing your hips
around the washington monument
as lincoln watches
hard as a rock
dance for me
decay dance
rain dance
acid rain
pounds pounds pounds on the grave
of syd barrett
and the dark side of the moon
is our final frontierland
we always want what we can’t have
american honey
you never give me your money
i only give you my funny papers
and you never let me kiss you on the mouth
never let me touch you
when i tell you i love you
you never hear me beneath the sound
of manhattan traffic

american honey
you burn the back of my throat
like cigarettes
like lung cancer
like crosses in the bible belt
setting free a million white ghosts
in their pointed little hats
and glancing down you say
“everything’s bigger in texas”

american honey
sometimes i want you to be a slow dance
in oklahoma
last call dance whiskey in hand
as you whisper in my ear
that you want to make love
but you’re always snorting coca-cola
in your dressing room
under the bright fluorescent lights
of the hollywood sign
you’re always putting makeup
on the four-headed hydra
of south dakota
applying red #40 lipstick

you dance like television commercials
and big blockbuster movies
american honey
you always sneak out in the middle of the night
it’s always hide and seek with you
never spin the bottle
i find you in crack-cocaine alleyways of brooklyn
and tucked in the spaces between the green scrolling
billboards of wall street
but i could never find your soul

buried with hoffa
and the american dream

oh where oh where can she be?
oh my darling
you were lost and gone forever
dreadful sorry

american honey
you tell me you feel like ratso
as alcoholic sweat pours down your face
on a bus to florida
and i tell you everything is gonna be alright
your eyes are doing ringling brothers backflips
and you’re eating yourself alive
like cannibalistic polar bears
your toenails are chipped like the shoulders
of politicians
hidden under shoulder pads
like american sports teams
and i wish i could have seen you dance one more time
but you’re dying on me
your knees shake like east coast earthquakes
that we all feel the tremors of
don’t you go dying on me, american honey
i’m in love with your blue eyes like frank sinatra
and your red hair like lucille ball
your white skin and the way your house always
smells like your grandmother’s cooking

american honey
twenty-one gun salute for you
america’s sweet heart
beating no more
i think about you sometimes
in the white of night
when the clouds creep over the grand canyon
like an american flag over an empty grave

hooker with a heart of gold
frankenstein’s monster with betty davis eyes
and we created you
and all of edison’s electricity
couldn’t bring you back to life
all of carnegie’s steel
and all of ford’s men
and we still
couldn’t put you back together




"The Exploding Head of Don Quichotte" by Salvador Dali
“The Exploding Head of Don Quichotte” by Salvador Dali















i am sleepless and doped up on cough syrup and listening to boards of canada
i am still flip flopping between being a cowboy and a buddhist monk
but really i am flip flopping between being alive and being dead
between being a nice outstanding young man who is a good samaritan
a real back breaker, a real gem to society and then i’m being
a ghost haunting this town home, pacing through the halls flicking the lights on and off
working on my lurking skills because my lurking skills need work
writing poems about writing poems about writing poems
and sending them to christopher nolan and letting him know it will be the biggest thing
since inception

i dream within this dream within this dream
i moved around a lot as a kid and part of me thinks
that i really never stopped moving
but really and i mean really really
is it possible to stand still?

we are agents of chaos
we are geriatric children

i dream within this dream within this dream
and i pay mind to the beautiful eyes and i stop to unwind beside them
and i tell them i love them that i want them or need them and sometimes
they nod their heads and agree with me and sometimes the joy fades from their pupils
and i move on

i do not stay where i am not welcomed
i do not stay where love is finite
because my love is infinite like a giant bottle of shaken up soda
exploding across the cosmos

my love is john muir beneath a redwood tree
my love is going back in time to sylvia plath
to try and talk her down while she is preheating the oven

i dream within this dream within this dream
and i use to be afraid but i am afraid no more
fear is stupid
anger is stupid
and stupidity is just the way you feel
when nobody told you
what you now know
now that somebody took the time to tell you

i dream within this dream within this dream
and i live for this day and the one before it
and the one after it as i sit around with these
out-of-order days at the apogee space cafe together
drinking cosmic lattes and interstellar macchiatos
as we share a galactic biscotti



JUNE 10TH, 2014

all i needed was four days off
in a row i guess
that, and the proceeding 25
years before it
moved my parents like chess pieces
to their new home
took the contents of my tea kettle skull
and poured it off the side of a cliff

a Kerouacian hallelujah chorus

a substantial amount of this pressure
i’m finding
was self-imposed
went to the doctor
bloodwork came back fine
urine sample came back fine
doctor told me to take a chill pill
and eat less
and move more
(in a nice doctory way though)

i’ve been listening
and so far i’ve been happy and exhausted

i’ve been feeling romantic
like drive all night to find my love
and she’s been driving all night
and our cars break down
in some diner in Baltimore
and we see each other and

i’ve been ingesting
a fair amount of alone time
(which means
listening to Radiohead
in my room
and the occasional coming-to-Jesus
talk in those showers
where you sit on the floor
and let the water hit your face
and time doesn’t exist)

time is the most mystical
chocolate chip cookie
ever baked

(don’t read too much
into that last sentence)

june 10th, 2014
got rained on
during my hike today
it was strange
i didn’t feel like i was
in the right place in time
until it started raining
but then it did

it was as if
i was in search for an
original experience
but i felt like one of the
good ole littleton natives
until it rained
watching the fanny pack families
run down the mountain
in their t-shirts
that will end up in thrift stores
“i was in colorado” shirts
“i like to travel” shirts
but they ran
and i kept walking
despite the thunder and lightning
and i said to myself
“this isn’t how i die,”
like Edward Bloom in Big Fish
and i was right
so call me crazy
but i pushed through the rain
and now i have this story
on the back of a receipt
in my back pocket



this house is empty.

this house is emp

this house is ours.
it belongs to us and thus
it belongs to everyone
but tonight
it belongs to you
and me and you.
the three of us
pioneers blazing down
the dharma oregon trail.
(the walls
they shine with tealights
and silence
on bookshelves we will fill
with our minds
our minds filled to the brim
with our hearts
our hearts filled to the brim
with the tealights
and the shine in each other’s
like the forming
of a new constellation.)

this house is emp
the oven is clean.
the fridge is barren.
there are no footprints
on the backporch,
no stains in the sinks
no nails sticking out from the
listening walls
for us to hang our stories


we had everything that night.
and when big men
in big trucks come
and take away our emotional beds
our mental furniture
our dirty laundry
our fridge mag
scattered fridge magnets
of random words
of random nothings that we
rearrange into random some
and the goblin guests re
arrange into random some
things and the big men
in big trucks take it all away
out in the great digital ether
outside our crooked door
when we are left
with dust
and torn up linoleum
and the ghosts that were here before us
that we danced with
in orange lighting
at something o clock in the nothing
when we are left with nothing
and this house is emp
we will have everything we’ve always had
and we will never leave.

we do not step backwards through time
we dance, we grape
vine, we sit in the darkness of time
where there are no lamps, no books, no clocks
and we laugh at ourselves




tonight feels like
one of those nights
where it feels like
the whole world
was invited to a party
some grandiloquent party
with a giant chandelier
and blurry visions
skirts lifted up
high into the sky
beneath the golden sun
of nighttime
a black and white affair
black tie, red dress
toss your woman up into the air
as the band plays on
their notes drifting
through cigar smoke
over the alcoholic ground
and the universe collectively cheers
to itself
but i
am sitting here
severely alone
in a room with no windows
banging at the stupid, stupid

i am doctor manhattan on mars
i am thirty-seven days of peril
lost among the thick, thick smoke
of the american earth
i am the man
who drowned
in a sinkhole
that came before the anticlimax
of the writhing desperate night
and swallowed him into the ground
i am without reason
i am outside of myself

i am the sound
when you scream
on top of a mountain
and there is no echo

breathless air
flowers for the dead

has the world lost me?
have i lost the world?
did we ever have each other
or were we just fuck buddies?

the phone don’t ring
and i am left to be
a brain
in a jar
in the middle
of nowhere




there is this elevator that runs up my spine
and play music that is just plain terrible
elevator music. hold music. public television music.
i cannot stand it. and my cat burglar heart
tries like hell to sneak in in the night
and rip out the speakers and reinstall in its place
new sound. vivid sound. the kind of sound
that shakes your neighbor’s walls
the kind of sound that you just lay
eyes up counting the little white flakes
on the ceiling while they are banging on your door
sirens and air horns and bass bass bass
that’s the song i want to play inside my elevator
filled with strangers who don’t talk to each other
but tear them out too.

i want to replace them with a man in a tux
and a woman in a slinky red dress
and when they first get on the elevator
they are as far apart as can be
but the man looks over and the woman looks coy
and as soon as the doors closed
they are throat deep in each other’s mouths
and she asks him if he’s married
and he says yes and she says i don’t care
i don’t care tonight because we were trapped
in this elevator that goes up brice’s spine together
and we are here to beat the doldrums away.
we are just figments of brice’s midnight imagination.

i don’t remember the last time i kissed someone.
i mean sincerely sincerely sincerely kissed someone.
seats leaned back, non-elevator music on the radio
just got lost in the rhythm that they present to me.
tonight, i’m sleep deprived and thinking only of this.
tonight, the elevators were just a segway to what
i really wanted to say to you, dear reader.
but you see, i couldn’t get to it right away
because the delivery man was trapped on floor five
because the infidelitous couple were hijacking the elevator
jammed it stuck at level four, so i had to wait
for their moment of love to end to find exactly
i was looking for.



be the savior of my religion
be the hand beneath my pillow
be the paperweight on my papers in the wind
be the kiss that beats my alarm clock

i’ll be the dust on your stage
i’ll be the canary to your coal mine
i’ll be the detour to your house
i’ll be the fire to your attic

we’ll be until we can’t
we’ll move like wind ahead of hurricanes
we’ll dance like we’re drunk
in my parent’s basement

then you’ll be the ghost under my stairs
then you’ll be beneath my flowers and my letters
then you’ll be the flowers that rise to your grave
then you’ll be cumulonimbic swan songs

then i’ll be with you amongst the madness
then i’ll be swimming beside you like two halves
of a pair of scissors piercing through paper chaos
then i’ll remember the way we felt

i’ll remember the way we felt

then i don’t know
i don’t know
i don’t know
i don’t know

we’ll make it up as we go along.