categories: Alcohol, Life, Music
tags: , , ,

Hello, you.

It’s been a long time. Have you forgotten me? Do you even care? Does it even matter? It’s in the past now, so get yourself some coconut water (do you still drink coconut water?) and have a listen to the first song I’ve written in a while. My friend Sean really likes it.

Admittedly, he was drunk and I was standing right there, so what else was he supposed to say?

Hey, you know what? That just got me thinking: instead, let’s grab some beer (you like Six Point, right?), I’ll come over and we can listen together. Because I don’t know how you feel, but I miss you. I miss this. Let’s never go this long without seeing each other again, okay?


Yours in song,
Andrew Jimenez.

(PS: This player hates what we have together so it doesn’t always play the song correctly – or at all. If you’re having trouble, Click here to access the actual file.)

Carry me out of here
with your boots clacking upon the sidewalk
and take me home.

I don’t want to remember myself tomorrow
or the way your smell, like rosewater and baby powder
lulls me to sleep.

Because tomorrow none of this
will mean anything more than a tendril of smoke
you blew when I first met you.

There are cruel bitches, there
are thoughtless bitches, and then there
is you–somewhere between.

I don’t want to remember your tit
in my mouth or the shape of your ass as you walk
out the door. But I know I will.

Unless the booze and the pot
and the pills and the train rides to nowhere
like endless snakes of love.

What was I talking about?
How can a man concentrate with a beautiful woman
walking around naked like that?

Fuck you for fucking me,
waking up, having naked pancake breakfast,
then leaving me alone.

“Bad Romance” will never sound the same
without you standing at the stove, shaking your
bare ass, and singing along.

I didn’t even mind the nasally, musical
theatre quality your voice had as I taught you
harmonies to my songs.

There are foolish men, there
are lovesick men, and then there
is me between your thighs.

You want a friend, you want
a casual, natural easy thing. I want love.
Is there a between?

You say you need to fix yourself
first. Well, fucking is fixing and we’ve both
got the tools right here.

The only real difference
between remembering and forgetting
is you and me.

categories: Alcohol, Poetry

When you talk to my heart, do it
in dulcet tones.
When you kiss the ruby tear, do not
be consolatory.

bite hard, my love, and swallow
harder; I want you
to eat me alive.

She was an anarchist
masquerading as a student.

Love was a government
towards which
she aimed her Molotov.

I’ll have a Jack Daniel’s, please.

When you leave, do so
with respect
and pay for your own damn drinks.

categories: Alcohol, Internet, Life, Music, Poetry

{Another day, another poem. I think this one might be the first poem to ever legitimately poeticise iTunes. So there’s that. Plus: I dig that I gave this poem a hip, non-sequitur, Fall Out Boy-esque title.}
You feel like change
is in order–
but what?
Scan the pages of CraigsList
for a new apartment,
join a dating site.
Look up a new bar
in a nearby neighborhood.
You open the windows
for the first time
since fall and
notice how similarly
it smells to spring.
The inbetween seasons.
The open-window seasons.
The wandering heart
searching for a reason
to curl like a cat
between the comforting
pattern of your lungs,
fall asleep there
purring and contented,
and never wake up.
But instead, your heart
is a housecat at the window,
pacing on the sill,
measuring life by patterns
of shadows on the buildings.
Kids are playing stickball
in the street, hide-and-seek
and your stoop is homebase.
Ollie-ollie oxen, free!
Cries your heart, but
still, the knock at your door
is only the ConEd man
here to read the meter.
You put your own hand to your chest
because your heart’s meter cannot
be read with numbers–though you
have considered counting cigarettes,
empty beer cans, the play count of
the saddest songs in your iTunes library.
Then you realize: this is the change
that will be leftover from your spent life;
these are the throwaway legacies
of your hardwork lounge of an existence.
Your life amounts to memories
that will be replaced, cans
that will be recycled, and
brown-edged rolls of paper
with scraps of your DNA
in ink and spit.
When future anthropologists study us,
all they’ll have to dig through
is our browser histories.
How, then, should they construct a life
made of Google searches for
“human connection” and “free porn?”
You believe people never talk about

what they truly mean; they talk
in concrete sidewalks,
but never go into the buildings.
They walk the cliches
of safe neighborhoods,
hailing a cab with retread tires of
tired excuses back home
after the bars last-call
the final round of two-dollar
cans of laughter.
You think that art was once
what people used to explicitly state
their hearts’ desires in their most
beautiful form. But why dress it up
in a gown and take it to the prom
when you can Google the subtext?
If Da Vinci was alive today, what
would his MySpace page look like?
What would Shakespeare Twitter?
All you know is: Einstein
would definitely prefer Facebook.
Why spend years holed up in a room,
trying to sublimate the base in hopes
of winning the heart of someone for whom
you’ll forever have to keep up the charade,
when–in that same room–the internet
will let you have it for what it is,

instantly, 24 hours-a-day?
The cat hops down from the window,
setting itself down in your lap
as you split the difference and
peruse “Casual Encounters” posts.