via Attending




“More than intending, the poet attends!” -Dean Young

How do you bend the mind to change it? Expand it, step inside of it, push out the repetitive, the ruminative, the dead-end future-pursuing want-to-be problem solving Effort-For-Nothing?

The Effort-For-Nothing

Not a Dominatrix

But a pigeon-holing




piece of No-Peace-Giving


I think you have to embrace It.

“Attends to the conspiracy of words as it reveals itself as a poem, to its murmurs of radiant content that may be encouraged to shout, to its muffled musics there to be discovered and conducted” -DY

There’s something violent in me. Something that wants love and hates ignorant impotency, the cat-calling cacophony surrounding innocence, purity, relief, Genuine-Being.

The Question:

When does It Break-Free?

The Break-Free.

The Violent Innocence,

Robbed of Naivety.

I still love the smell of wetness clinging to growing leaves on sad trees, seeing us abuse and violate and obliviate ourselves as if nothing was ever real or worth anything.

Innocence can be a mean,

Thick-Skinned Giant.

Innocence is wiser than the wide mouth of a mentally ill world devouring the Real, vomiting Treachery.

Innocence is something the world and I have tried to suffocate in me but it is there

and It Is.

It Is.

Tales of Ordinary Madness excerpt

I got through the first 30 minutes, asked for a ten minute break, got down off the stage with my bottle and sat at a table with Belford and 4 or 5 students. A young girl came up with one of my books. God o mighty, baby, I thought, I’ll autograph anything you’ve got!

“Mr. Chinasky?”

“Sure,” I said with a wave of my genius hand. I asked her name. Then wrote something. Drew a picture of a naked guy chasing a naked woman. Dated it.

“Thanks very much, Mr. Chinasky!”

So this was how it worked? Just a bunch of bullshit.

I took my bottle out of some guy’s mouth. “Look mother, that’s the 2nd hit you’ve taken. I’ve got to sweat another thirty minutes up there. Don’t touch that bottle again.”

I sat in the middle of the table. Then I took a pull, sat it back down.

“Would you suggest writing as a career?” one of the young students asked me.

“Are you trying to be funny?” I asked him.

“No, no, I’m serious. Would you advice writing as a career?”

“Writing chooses you, you don’t choose it.”

-Charles Bukowski-

They’ll Fall Down

The irony of backing up is I don’t know what’s behind me.

The irony of backing up…

A blind backing out of safety.

These comforting cold monoliths

are limiting my vision.

”You were three hundred sixty degrees—I depended on you for a lot of things”

I can’t believe you allowed yourself to know, that you found such strength, without me, to grow,

With my back against these self made walls, I’m bottomlessly grateful.

Dead Growth

There was a place you went with her

that I didn’t understand-

a place where the line was drawn

clearly in the sand.


We went from a place where I was sure you would die under my “protection”

We went from a place where I felt unseen, beaten, misplaced, taken for granted—manipulated, hated, used, just stuck



Dead Growth—


that feeling that someone will make it better when you’re stuck—


that feeling that someone New doesn’t get to give a fuck about the hours you pull, the things you see, the loneliness at night when there’s no one to be.


who do you become


Among the dead growth?


Who dies,

Among the Dead Growth?.