poetry
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don’t tell me
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I love: the city. my guitars. my room. poetry. the church bells at Concord Baptist Church of Christ on Marcy Ave. street art, movement art, lo-budget indie films, dogs and cats, hoops, my friends, the sky, the ocean, my bike, skateboarding, a blossoming almond tree, almendrados (Spanish almond cookies), soccer, adidas, music, healers and dealers…
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Nasser Candy is a bodega on Church Avenue in Brooklyn. everyone there speaks corner store English. it’s just a chill place. I have been there, like, a hundred times. one day it hit different. or maybe it was exactly the same, but I was different. I’m not sure what happened. but I was going to make…
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I don’t like it when people try to figure me out. I like it even less when they think they already have. there’s a misguided belief that just because you’re a sad-looking punk who plays an acoustic guitar, it means you are sad or it makes you more honest than musicians who attempt to create an experience of truth in some other way.…
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when someone is missing, their possessions take on a new meaning. so where I run into these things, I begin to make songs – I can feel your empty t-shirt, but I can’t feel you I know your spoon as well as I know your mouth you have the look of the bed you rose…
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I never know exactly what poets and lyricists mean when they refer to an angel. often they’re writing about someone they’re just really into, and sometimes an angel in Heaven’s Holy Host. sometimes we call someone an angel to affirm the light in that person. I like this designation: that somebody not apart from life on this earth can bring you a light, sweep air…
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today it’s a girl on the train in a red KITH oversized hoodie and black old school Vans tapping her foot to whatever beat, looking like she’s worked all day, dreams of pressure-flips and stair jams, and the snow’s about to fall. Brooklyn Banks is a dark, secret place under the Manhattan end of the…
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in the hood of being beautiful/the N holds its breath like snow/soundless as disco/I search out the window for you/while we’re still close enough to Surf Avenue/I know I’m failing/running out of time/it’s me on the inside/and you on the out/I open Notes to write you a letter/the train seems to sigh/please let’s never die…
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when I was a little kid, I wrote a letter to my favorite TV show, Scooby Doo. I told them they should do an episode where the monster turns out to be real. I’m grown up now (pretty much), and I still know that monsters are real. and that when you’re fighting one, it’s really…
cookie nieves 