Author Archive

August Sucker Punch

August 2018- Selection from new Collection Q Bop-City

Nothing to See Here

Well I honestly didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. In the past there was always somebody to pay for what I wanted behind me.

-Actress Gene Tierney’s explanation when caught shoplifting in the film Whirlpool (B & W 1947)

 

No Yellow crime scene tape.

No chalk outline of a victim on the asphalt.

A crowd didn’t gather.

Perhaps someone wandered by on the way to

the store and might have glanced here

in this direction looking for something else.

Just curious.

That’s all.

But really ?

No one saw anything.

A bored cop took the complaint

from an anonymous source.

Turned out to be a false report anyway.

It was ascertained that truth was the only injured party.

But nobody could locate that

And it never showed up at the hearing anyway.

The only charges filed were dropped later

due to lack of any real evidence

Or indication of criminal intent.

 

So Enough.

Nothing to be seen here.

Not even Poetry was called in to question.

So just….

Move along.

Nothing to see here.

5/2011

 


July Stood and Delivered

July 2018New work from pending publication of the next book Q- Bop City published in August

 

Swinging for the Fences in Q-Bop City

*

Of Odds & Pitch Counts

Some people are born

With two strikes on them

Others start out with the count 3 and 0

And go through life

Always content to just take that walk

While the former keep swinging at one in the dirt.

*

If Only

 

If you could only

just write one poem

that sounded like

Ben Webster’s

Tenor Saxophone

Then maybe

somebody might

listen to you.

*

I bet infinity

is just endless talk

or worse yet….

Discuss.

 *

Burning June

Each June sunset

burns like a stick match

struck against balance

left in the calendar box.

Right now I’ve got 27 left.

But who’s counting ?

I am.

*

How the West was Lost

 

Have we all really merely become a race

Of distracted cyber pioneers

Too embarrassed to admit

All that we never knew

Remembering the trivial

Forgetting the essential.

*

Hearing Aide

 

Received a postcard in the mail yesterday

Offering either an agnostic apostle

Or generic prosthesis-

And I didn’t hear a thing.

*

Fuck Waste Book

 

Listen here

You can just skip the Like Box

And the dislike Box

Heading straight for the

I don’t give a shit Box.

  Q-Bop City 2018

*

Walter Matthau’s Hat

Now I have this ratty, worn, ancient NY Mets hat that I practically live in around the house.

Would wager I have done everything a man can do in it.

Sometimes I forget it’s even on my head and wear it out in public.

So I’m in the local Save-a-Lot yesterday morning over in the meat section.

Looking over the turkey parts and out of the corner of my eye I notice this

Guy in a crisp impeccable pristine Yankees cap over near the chicken livers

Shaking his head and smirking at me with a bemused condescending vibe.

So I saunter down to the pork chops and keep shooting him looks until

He has to directly acknowledge me and he says in a snide sarcastic

Tone-

So……You’re a Mets fan  

 

I deadpan him with this innocent pokerfaced and reply matter of factly…

O you mean this hat ?  Nah I’m a Walter Matthau fan- You know that movie

From 68 called the Odd Couple ? Well he appears in a number of scenes with

This very Mets hat. I got this on E-Bay years ago-cheap- surprisingly they

Say it’s worth a quite a lot of money now.

 

Of course now dude in the Yankees cap seems interested and rather impressed.

You could see the dollar signs lighting up his eyes.

And he goes….really?

 

Sure- been thinking about putting it back up for bid soon- should pay for my Daughters tuition

At college for a couple of semesters…

 

Abruptly ending the conversation… Tipping my hat to him walking away

Mumbling under my breath.  So who’s on First ? You dipshit….

Q- Bop City 6/2018

More selections in August Po of the Month

 


June just lost you 4.0

June 2018- Included below are a couple selections from a recent CD collection entitled Seeing Eye Ear recorded last June & released on CD Baby in November which is in the process on being revised with additional tracks for reissue in late Summer/early Fall. Meanwhile- if you can’t dance in the light ? You will stumble in the shadows-

1st Day of Summer

Solstice scimitar shaft
Slicing search torch
Gleaming longest burn
briefest pinnacle of light
declining seconds after
a descent commences….

The shadows start their
Encroaching erosion
Immediately….

Beware
Learn that lesson
From those who would
Build their world
On your ashes.

-from Got Abstract ?

*

Dreaming in Paintings visual realization  – Kayla Cunningham- from Seeing Eye Ear Audio collection Fall 2017

 

Dreaming in Paintings

 

There are these blank canvases

In my mind every night

And sleep brings dream pigments

To adhere as clear as if etched

In razor brushes so ineligible

Frame after frame

Like someone’s home movies

From another dimension.

In the morning I can’t remember

Anything about them

Except I can still see intact

The memories of what

I don’t understand

Recognize

Know my place in.

But these paintings are still there.

Like pages unwritten

Yet containing this message

I know is there

Like being aware of portals

To a spirit world

Picture window

To what

the eye has no seen

The ear has not heard

What no mind has imagined.

Returning back to

This corporeal reality

Which seems so gray and shallow

Is a real drag

After knowing those paintings

Where fire is water

And earth  is air.

Dancing between

in the disambiguation there.

                                                          –   Got Abstract ?  2014

 

I promise to keep your photo on the dresser

 

Another month blooms

from inside itself to life 

May June July

as flower explosions

scent the time sky

while memory invoked

moments seeded in youth

Sunrises with snow white

air born cotton fibers

Dawns with a high full moon

still hanging in the blue sky

leftover midnight @ dawn

May June July.

Another month blooms

from inside itself to life.

You once yourself

did as much

to awaken in rebirth

on either coast strange or familiar bed

with a yellow light streaking through

custard bedroom curtains

spilling on and firing the ivory of the sheets.

untroubled by any horizon of doubt

from the meridian of the coming day.

Her arms reached for you

while a picture of someone else

sat planted eyeless on the dresser watching

you moving from the small of her back

into that coal shock blackness

of her wild thatched hair

cascading on to her shoulders

bodies entwined rising from the mattress

singing into each other’s ears.

-The Terrible Now   2003

*

Medical Records

lLittle V Says here that I was born 6/7/55

for $125.00 with that you get three consulting physicians @ 25 bucks a pop & a C-section.

And all I’ve heard my entire life was that I was no bargain.

Bullshit

-Attitude House  2001

 

 

 

*

elite-daily-mad-caster-instagram

Sister in Gemini

(for June Webb)

I remember seeing her out in the front yard in the June sunshine

When we were both quite small

Out on a blue chez lounge recovering from her latest operation

Her blonde hair and massive white bandages and cast seemed to glow

The doctors where trying to repair her deformed limbs

She and I had been born hours apart

I was told that June might never walk again and would probably

Have to struggle this handicap for the rest of her life

Yet it was me who was indelibly marked with harmless

port wine stains  on my face and neck….

Like a Technicolor Achilles

and was told to consider myself lucky

I saw her years later in the marketplace still limping with

Her signature smile and familiar lope

I kissed her and wished us a happy birthday

And she smiled and remarked…why you haven’t aged at all

I replied with a shrug….you ought to see me on the inside

They knew just where to aim the arrows.

Got Abstract /2014

The Yellow Sting Ray

 

Yellow StingrayWhen I turned 12

I pestered the living crap

Out of my folks for this

Really, expensive Schwinn

Yellow Sting Ray Bicycle

With high set handle sissy bars,

Gear shift and sparkly plastic banana seat

That I saw in the widow of Terry’ Bike shop

In town.

 

The old man said how ugly it was

and was just way too much GD money

at 89 dollars for such stupid dangerous thing

But it was my birthday

And I think my Nana kicked

In some dough.

 

So that evening my mom pulls

Into the driveway with it sticking out

Of the rear of the gray station wagon

And I took off on it like a bat out of hell

Not getting more than twenty feet away

And attempted to POP a wheelie like I had

Seen them do on TV.

 

Of course I immediately dumped the thing

Going air borne and ending up

In a crashing concussion

To the hard into the road surface

Raking myself up one bloody mess

Of road rash from head to foot in

Shredded clothes and with blue stones

And tar stuck into my abrasions.

 

Not only that I bend the frame,

handle bars

the yellow banana seat

came off as well.

 

And some 45 years later

I’m still doing pretty much

The same kind bullshit

to anything

I can get my hands on.

 

Just still trying to ride the GD thing

Without going down in flames

And tearing my ass to shreds

Down into the gutter

 

Got Abstract   2014

*

Lost & Found June Fragments

*

Memory

Most of what you are compelled to recall

Arrives in this plain brown reality wrapper

Containing roses and razor blades

in a hollowed out hymnal

So that all you can really remember clearly

Is praying never to be cut like that again.

 

What is a Good Story Teller ?

 

A good story teller

Can relate to you the verbatim truth

And you’ll be so sure they are lying

Through their teeth

And yet

That very same person will in the next breath

Spew the most outrageous bold face lie

And you’ll bet your last bottom dollar

You just heard a brilliant truth.

 

The Pyromaniac’s Logic

 

Unhappy little oneListen.

You remind of the little girl

Who started a fire somewhere once

And ran away

Only to show later

With coffee and donuts

For the sweaty beat fireman

Trying to extinguish the damage

And when during the coffee break

They seemed none to please to see you

 

You storm away in a huff

Thinking just how ungrateful

They are.

 

-Uncollected 2012


May will say it to you 3.0

May 2018– New Work- From last June-I still wonder if you ever head that much-

This is a collaboration w/ Kayla Cunningham in memory of her Mom-as heart breaking as it this breath taking-

May 2017 Shorts

*

Playing Russian Roulette Cyber Phone

Six Chambers Characters only

One wants to hear from you

All the others are blanks

 

 

We are all we will ever have

And we are awash

With devices that want

No part of us.

 

We Saw Horse

Upon a rocking broken sky

Prompted up go between in

Sleepy Suspended thunder heads

 

Man…unless

You get your mug out of the jug

And your hand out of your pants ?

You we remain just another aging pilgrim

With dubious aspirations

Who fights tooth and nail

Resisting any enlightenment.

Left at the dock

He was ruthless in his pursuit

To be a nobody

Proudly beaming upon the Wharf

After he missed the Cyber boat

Crossword Poetry

 

Down

 

  1. Five letter word for Robert Mitchum in the Kitchen

3.Overheard casuistic conversation.

5.Cryptic formula for silent dismissal

  1. Between beer #4 & #7
  2. Broken silent bicycle chain

 

Across

 

  1. Tourist from Orion’s belt
  2. Eno’s finks don’t do this
  3. Lincoln had no laughs.
  4. Mr Ed’s wires did this
  • PT 109 Borginue
  • Stairway to Smith Haven Maul lead singer
  • Beckett’s Laurel & Hardy

 

Down 

 

  • Nobody Walks in LA
  • Fail Safe Dr. Strange Love
  • Picnic basket Catcher
  • Beat respite between Dunkin Ds and Mickey Bs
  • Big Mountain E9th long ago between 1 & 2nd

 


In Rerun May

May 2018-  New works pending

Time pass 1

Type Rope

OK settle down now

and face the page

after a long day

of confronting all those faces

you just didn’t have either the heart

or the patience to listen

to anybody’s rehash

of just one more word

over the noise

over the boys club

numbing boozing sameness.

No instead

you bailed

to see this instead.

Get a cold one into your hand

and review the inscription

on the small of her back

with the shoulders

expressly pointed

in the other direction.

We are dancing

naked on a tight rope

everyday brings

the prospect

of  chance to fall

And just get a fresh costume

from wardrobe.

Gridville 2004

*

imagesDon’t Ask

 

Never ask when

what you know all ready

Your thoughts may escape

but you won’t.

Words might fly off the handle

but not far enough to be heard

either distinctly or accurately.

Drama is never

in short supply

in this stage flat world.

But good scripts

are at a premium

while eager bad actors abound.

If you don’t know your own lines

any better than anyone else ?

Don’t ask.

From Sometimes Grief 2012

Back Fence Neighbors

  (for Minnie)

Saw my next store neighbor

in the adjacent yard over

the fence between us on a

May evening and of course

I said hi and she asked how

I was doing?

and I replied

shrugging ok…I guess

and she said you guess ?

Yeah I went

most people when asked either

brag or complain

or worse yet ?

They explain.

Sometimes Grief 2012


April is still not a Nice Girl

April 2018-  Seems it all to runs either too cold or too hot- thinking here a broken thermostat or heart

The Missing Thread

*

Trying so very hard

not to miss this

fragile thread.

The tail end of the shadows

contains it like it was pulling ink

in a thread line pinpoint

needles eye of the lines on this page.

 

April ignoring Spring

Back turned smirking

lusting in the gusting

of a premature barbecue twilight

gale burning hotter

wanting Summer now

Instead.

No time foreplay.

April pleading hot and fast

Jump me now

Instead of holding the fool May’s hand

 

So in the hissing high unnatural

desire there is just enough

light and heat to make you

believe out of season

you’ve got a shot at all this.

 

When April wants to really taunt March

she uses his winds like this on you.

 

The roar of Winter in the throat of a August Dog

right after the Fools day with your name written

all over it.

 

April laughing in all their faces.

Calling then just a bunch of numbers with Roman names

don’t let the calendar door hit you as it clears

your ass clear away.

 

April

Not a nice girl

after all.

Knows you and your missing thread

and shows up on an afternoon like this

to taunt and tease  you…..in knots.

                                       Gridville 4/2010

*

 

Resurrection of an old April Foolon that Easter Sunday

That Easter Sunday morning

One year later broke

Bright, sunny and mild

 

but as the day progressed

a gray chilliness encroached

hour by hour

till by the mid afternoon

there was little memory

remaining

 

or perhaps too much.

 

It had been another Spring past

since you left earth

walking through me

on that train platform

just after I put my son

on all aboard.

 

Not like we haven’t spoken since

I suppose in a fashion

in a sense

The sound of your voice was gone

except what clearly recall

from time to time

in my heart.

 

Much like the memory

of a morning of resurrection

struggling to be recalled.

 

and on certain nights

there is this distinct scent

of freshly popped corn

all about the room in the attic

 

but only once in awhile

 

Just a kernel of you

 

Just a kernel

 

left now.                                                                   4/8/2012

*

Near the Door of Spring

 When I have almost forgotten

In the blur of years make memory

The dream visit returns

As it does every March around

This time of year more than

Twenty years now since

 

She left this world

Young, blonde, vibrant

Cybil Sheppard of a woman

In the prime of her life

Her illness was swift and decisive.

No drama, just a quiet fatal infection.

 

In her latest visit

I was in a place of many colors

She was wearing red

Kissing me quickly I think

She usually does

To remind me she hasn’t forgotten

 

Then is a series of confused, brutal images

They were trying to pour gasoline

Mixed with water into her mouth

She wouldn’t open her lips

 

She was looking at me to help.

I could do nothing.

 

Sometimes Grief-  3/11

*

Can I ask a Small Favor ?

 

Desire

will sow

the seeds

of regret

into every

thoughtless

reckless impulse

one succumbs to.

 

Locked down emotions

escape and will

eventually lead

to the inevitable quarantine

of a past love

like some toxic entity

you picked up

on the door handle

of a rest room door.

 

And washing your hands

of it now

Will not help

You can ask

Lady Macbeth

about that

or perhaps even

Pontius Pilate

 

and while we are

in the neighborhood

let’s just ask for

a small favor….

the truth

and the consequences

just this once

without justification

or contrived filter

like the severed head of

St. John the Baptist

that Salome ask for

 

In exchange for doing

the dance of the Seven Veils

for her lecherous

step-father

 

Leaving even Herod

left scratching

his head over that one.

 

I recall him asking her

incredulously….

 

But what would…..  you do with such a thing ?

 

Salome smirked

shrugged…

I want him…..to ask for it back.

 

So in the end

much like a decapitated prophet

the truth will be known

 

and all the guests

of brutality

at her most

grotesquely best

are unanimous

in denial

about all this.

 

Desire

will sow

the seeds

of regret

into every

thoughtless

reckless impulse

one succumbs to.

 Sometimes Grief-          2/2012

 


When the March Day opened

March 2018  -as I recall once

Echinacea

 

I keep hearing the first word

and the last word follow lock

step right next to each other.

 

As usual.

But lately they have

started to match.

 

The last time I heard

it on a concrete ramp

right before the first pitch

across a chilly April sunshine

hidden half sunlit and shadow

just in the next section over.

 

In smoke shrouded swirling chin

in shades yet.

Looking down in the coffee

there was this reflection

at the bottom

of my black coffee cup sea.

 

Contended to the bone.

Back sharing a solid slab.

All over it with my shoulders

in my favorite place.

 

Thinking of you.

Lyrics alive.

Taking shape behind my eyes

Pushing a song out of my lips.

 

You hidden right around corner.

All the time.

You thinking

Just what am I really seeing ?

 

 

In his line of vision.

 

It was Sanitation day @ Shea.

 

Pitcher came out

Plywood flat

BP practice fast balls

It was a blow out by the 5th.

 

I sat next to you

with my kid

in stolen seats.

While a fan

screamed out my name.

 

I sucked

He loved me

 

He wasn’t even talking to me.

 

Great Garbage.

 

It was all pretty familiar.

 

The last word

and the first.

 

All over again.

 

Fuck’n play ball

or not at all.

 

And that was never

the last word heard

or

the first word they seem to mean

 

But it was always

all I ever heard

of everything in between                                                    The Terrible Now circa 2004

 


Marching Past You

March 2018- Doppelganger


Of texture and Color

With one eye warily watching the door

the bartender with some

exasperation shrugged

all I heard was a spicy bloody Mary.

 

I nodded in agreement and immediately wrote down

You change the pens color in me.

 

It was the creme feel to the page

somewhere in the sheep and oil skin

 

To the touch that defines the lines content

in context calling in a fluid hue

all that two parallel paths

can carry between them

all they can contain

in the ear that listens

closely for what the eyes sees

left for you upon

the crème of the page.

 

You can’t touch color

or so they say.

 

However the request to bathe

in tone and shade is to extend

to reach out the hand and try

 

Touch were all the colors

never answer to their proper names

and refuse to simply run out and dry.

 

Perhaps then it is that desire

to request the color of the pen to change

is what so very few can do for each other

-to each other.

 

No one chooses anything here

The first glace into the other’s face

that rings the bell or

reverberation between

the four eyes looking into

the creme of the page

as it goes……………..ding.                                                      3/11

 

Mad March World 

In this light

March simply has

nowhere to go

but……on.

 

The step in the day

a longer presence

of illumination into

the afternoon later now

every new year born

in this same way.

 

There is this sense of urgency

a sort of headless Madness

that ignites

brittle tree limbs to

fan fine struck fingers

in complicated silhouette

 

flung across the horizon

like a bottle of India ink

spilled and splattered

upon a pale blue sky page.

 

I send these words

mere reflection

auditory stenography

purely dependant

on perception systems

beyond my grasp or control

 

Along the prescribed channels

as the pale blue light

drains the light

from the sky’s page.

 

3/11

 

Still Time

 

The Romans named

the month March

I always thought

Drag would work

here much the same.

 

Not a new year anymore

quickly the cement days

harden

into a pattern

a past

a clear path of either

charge or retreat.

 

But in this illusion

thinking there is still time

fades Winter evening

as Spring light lingers

longer in the sky reach

forestalling twilight longer.

 

The anchor of passing days

leaden, barbed, heavy ways

digs in to the bottom every passing day

arresting progress in the cruelest way

Restrained

to drain away

in being held back

securely in place.

 

March nowhere

Drag all the time

crying some feeble

consolation…

 

There’s still time

            Still Time…

No.

We are

fresh out of still time

                                            3/11

 

Fragments of the March

Light upon in the Sound

Waves frozen in mid-break

 

Broken Shafts of weak March sun

newly poured upon cracked and

shattered sheets of hyper-white

entrenched ice

a history of persistent bitter air

trapping flowing waters still born

beneath.

 

Light upon the Sound

waves frozen in mid-break

 

Barely Marching sun

arrested impressions

strange frigid contours

rivets of pressure

compacted tighter

isobars deceptive surface

unlikely to support any weight

 

Yet enough to entrap

a fool’s misstep

 

Light upon the Sound

Waves frozen in mid-break.

 

3/2011


Goodbye Book Scout

February 2018- See you later Peter in the Terrible Now Book Scout memory-

It was a sad day last week when Pete Stevens walked out the door of The Book Scout for the last time. It was another link cut from the chain connecting us to the past, back to a time when rents were reasonable and used book stores, like The Book Scout, could survive, if not prosper.

Still, a more than three-decade run for a shop that didn’t sell food or clothing is pretty impressive. Actually, given the incredible turnover rate among businesses in Greenport, it is downright amazing. The Chamber of Commerce should give him an award.

The Book Scout was an institution that defied description. In this age of homogenized decor, where every shopper is an expert on Yelp, full of his or her own personal “shopping experiences,” The Book Scout existed in a parallel universe. The shop was not neat; far from it. Nor was it dusted. Pete did sweep on a regular basis, though where those sweepings went, no one seemed to know. Its stock of books, up to 6,000 at any time, were displayed on irregular and mismatching bookshelves of various sizes and materials.      -David Berson

Read full Article http://suffolktimes.timesreview.com/2018/02/80308/guest-spot-saying-farewell-to-greenports-the-book-scout/

The Book Scout

                                                                              -for bean time

So where is the music in that old face?

The filthy red and grey

knitted wool beret that he wore when

he watched you run past the paper weight factory,

the tombstone show room.

First – as a child led by your fathers’ hand

and then your son by your hand.

*

So when he offered his own,

a meat hook, weathered leather beet brown Catchers’ Mitt grasp

arthritic swollen rutabaga fingers,

You shook on the corner of the Cornet.

 

In his eyes he spoke,

“and what of all that easy conversation

……where did all that go?”

Here where the post modern meets local color

and forgets their lines and just repeats,

“nothing here, that’s the shame,

you left the usual useless stain.”

 

Don’t sing about the past

with the scenery all

switched around off key;

To kiss the ass

of some “old time who used to be.”

 

Whose only claim to fame

would appear is that they are still alive

out on the great sad sidewalk earth.

 

And now for my part,

I get the chair

in the beat cluttered little bookstore.

Forever in the cup of coffee

and still being aloud to smoke right inside.

To sit and read with the Ukrainian violins

mysteriously providing theme music.

 

So softly roll in and repeat the questions.;

And I on cue, will make the practiced replies

and we can drift to our somewhere else

by ourselves or in each others eyes.

 

What we know of our places will have to

be left on dusty shelves

and in forgotten volumes

I will be waiting

Right near the door

where they don’t look so much anymore.

 

Another Rubber Eden 9/93

*

2/14 – of  volcano hearts and  ordinary ashes that we once read in word and heard

Red Flame in the Rain

 

I was in a movie

In midtown that

Dreary rainy May Monday

Where the office girls

Hid under their umbrellas

Just back from lunch

 

In my big scene

I kissed one of them

On the sidewalk in a downpour

That cut loose the very second

We embraced.

 

I was in a movie

In midtown that

Dreary May Monday.

 

So kiss me in that noon rain

One last time

And the Angels crying till they laughed

Over us

Or laughing till they cried.

 

I dunno.

Maybe they were just taking a leak

And we happen to be in the way.

 

I was in Movie

In Midtown that dreary rainy Monday

Where the office girls

Hid under their umbrellas

Just back from lunch.

 

And if you happened by walking

And caught that scene

And did a little rubbernecking

Back at us.

 

Remember it.

 

Because we weren’t

Always just extras

And you should know

 

It was

It was….

 

Exactly what it looked like.

 

A red flame in the rain.

Sometimes Grief  (barks out the wrong tree) 6/2012

*

February Evaporation Plan

In a plastic holder posted

on the calendars wall

is this emergency

evaporation plan

for February

a season entrapped

between the beginning

and the ending of a

uneasy limbo where

this long tired Fall

that never really left anyone

and rumored early Spring

still yet to arrive.

So stumble in the numbness

of this brown grass with me

yawning in chilly indifferent distance.

 

Pity a month so very short

it stands up on tiptoe

to merely see the empty place

at the table set for it.

Deluded in preview

Obscured in past tense.

Silence marks the short days

towards the long March

away from a Winter that

declined to participate.

 

So now let the interchangeable

aspects of abandonment and embrace

cancel each on the way out

like fused lynch pins

pulling the freight

laden with baggage

and sodden weight

transported from

one faceless depot

to the vacant platform

of another’s eyes.

 

Uncollected      2/2012


Dybbuk out of Dreams 3.0

January 2018- This ebbing thaw will pass as well

*

List at the End of January

Snow coal cone lump ashtray pustule

shrinking in the corner of the parking lot.

(Ah….early spring)

 

Sound of clogged carburetor gagging on itself.

(Great…now you’ve flooded it)

 

Lost key trunk eye hole with yellow handed

long nick Phillip’s screwdriver protruding.

(Nope that didn’t work either…keep swearing)

 

False dawn slapping wind ganging away

slamming cheap tin bed frame freight train

ready to orgasm and derail.

 

Centipede shadow crawling measuring spoons

scurrying across the dingy white moon soaked linoleum floor

looking like a pool of quicksand.

 

Brown plastic garbage can rolling down the block

yawning in the gutter.

 

Air raid siren blast exploding

in a razor blade cable running through your ears

jerking your head off the sound sleep pillow.

(This was only a test)

 

Child’s dream speak night talk back lit in

orange dragon space heater steel teeth

hissing at the bars on the crib.

(Some childhood memories are best forgotten.)

 

Fresh creme of the New Year

curdling in the calendar’s carton.

Whose missing face is that printed on the side?”

-Another Rubber Eden 1996

January Letters 2012

 So soon the light struggles to return

to fill the new year wolf ticket sky

in a lingering tentative twilight

towards some vague promise of Spring

merely a rumor of rejuvenation

left in a hand written note

taped to a bus shelter on the corner

of 33rd St. and Lexington

asking you in rhyme by name

 

What did all the years mean…..   …… ?

 

I recall writing those January letters

imploring you to reconsider

that annual ritual of tossing

the poet out of your life.

 

Now as you have finally succeeded

you still read this in stubborn justification

safe in the distance from these words afar

telling you exactly

what you never had the heart

to tell me

to my face.

 

Mute the voice

Blind the eye

drain the last pool

of affection dry.

 

What is written here now

has a place beyond words

where language is the

shallowest of vehicles

for sequestered emotions

scattered to the four corners

of isolation, exile

estrangement and banishment.

 

Distance now is the key

after you have left another

in so very deep

that the hope of a journey back

to all the lost moments are everything

that you can no longer keep.

Better Get Abstract 2015

*

The Dybbuk Dreams

It was in the first few nights of the New Year

when all promise and disaster were as unopened mail

that the past had a walk in his sleep.

The Dybbuk’s hands opened old draws

shuffled through forgotten pages

Pausing to repeat a line of a letter

here and there.

 

Ashes were stirred and long dormant old flames set free

to flicker. Then the night faces could dance once more.

Night faces coming back to visit shining

eyes to glow back into.

 

Another year rolling itself out like an immense black wing .

Your sleeping form swept along in this night flight,

those waking hours, now the specter, this was the soul

strolling hand in hand with the eternal freedom of

time asleep.

 

She walked once more upon the mores, in a chilly thick fog.

Here where she had always known that he waited for her

In between anger and consequences,

in this dreamscape of quicksand recall where mushroomed

marsh islands of what might have been.

 

They both returned to this shadow realm of still photographs

hung and propped in the endless stark arms of winter.

Here where the past stood naked and true.

Both came with small hands grasping deep into the heart’s

pocket. Each visited at different points

along the dream curve, with separate dependencies and

versions of the same story.

 

They left messages here for each other.

The last word over and over. The promises of reconciliation

and forgiveness. The sensation they shared of never being

able to meet face to face again, outside of this place

of half light sand deep grey pools. Always to return to

the same beaten path, in the corner of the dream.

This place where the images of each other’s faces

in those frozen photos snared arrested looks

and eyes of love and delight that once were shared.

 

They both returned to this place, every so often

to get a face full and

look down at the other’s footprints

left in the path

from the night before.

Another Rubber Eden 1997


December Train Derailed

December 2017 – There’s something I must tell you….

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UlRge_Fkdjk

*

a-very-british-christmas-feast06Her Merry Christmas

 

Somebody has a Mom

Maybe Sister, perhaps Aunt

that is sitting out there tonight

wishing you would walk in the door

of the kitchen

the barroom

the bedroom

and give her just one good reason

to believe/forget the world’s cold shoulders

and hard edges and all that shit she has had to eat over

all the years might have meant something

more than the FWB de-jour or an

ex- husband that barely speaks to her

the old friends that seldom call

not to mention the children that

ignore/take her for granted.

 

184400551She’s listening to the Christmas music

sitting in the colored lights with a glass of wine

the tears are barely an after-thought

as she wonders why you never showed up

in her life and perhaps if you did once

why she ever

ever let you go.

 

Attitude House           12/99

*

Po of the MonthSerial Visits

The whistle is the period
in this motion sentence.
Punctuating movement
calling cooling coffee steam
escaping gray minuet figure 8s
in a rocking cardboard tray.

Go ahead.
Spill it.
After all
how many years
have you been ending
your life sentence
in this paragraph.

Awareness unraveling
to some temporary core
where you define
your next visit as the
last lap of time and distance
measured increments
like rungs of a ladder.

That track bed ratio
of rhythm and ties.

How do they sing in their beds so ?

What is it with that whistle
that you still insist upon
that you hear so clearly
much less
ride off
into a sentence of movement.

Present future
Past period.

Take a deep breath
of the dark roads awash
in wire to wire rain.
Do you stop to heave a sigh here ?

In relief awash or gasp for air
15 hours after ignition.
Do we have your
arrested attention
yet ?

How can you hope to convey
this flight
this passage
A shadow’s dance
In lock step perpetuation.

What kind of ticket shall we call this then ?

Miracle, weary ritual
or merely picking
from the fabric of your reflections
a thread you wove
that called you by name incessantly.

Into a dream
from out of a dream.

Where you step
and step again
all over it.
On it.
Just past it

Inside you.

12/03 Greetings from Gridville

*

stock-photo-a-red-industrial-hook-suspended-by-two-wires-at-the-end-of-a-boom-251137231

Christmas Visit Snapshot

Nearly noon along the Hudson
Brilliant light about
descending rust wine
iron crane wench hook
set in blue and white midday relief.

McNamara’s daughter isn’t coming
Johnny in Singapore
You sit in here alone
listening to the bartender
tell that the pickpockets are
using box cutters this year
up on 86th and Lexington.

Back in the Big Red Mountain booth
way downtown beaten worn linoleum
I’ll call you from the payphone
in the back near the pool table
while listening to the killer jukebox
resurrect Spike Jones singing,
“you always hurt the one you love.”

12/99 Attitude House

*

Pre C-Mas 2012 041 This one

Homecoming

Can you find any words left
for the long runway and this familiar foot rest.
All day miles melted past
and you were able to sit still silently propelled
just reading and taking notes.

Your big idea of time off.
Now before the last leg of the trip
you heel toe the legs put the sidewalk square
with an older eye.

Attesting to this as I walk in the door
overheard from the boys over the pool table,
“here comes the professor…..
wonder where his footnotes are tonight?”

So you take your place at the bar and
put out.
Always remembering, remembering
where you came from.

Greenport Christmas 98 Attitude House

 

 


Novembered

November 2017- Po will be updated at various times in the coming weeks

All Souls Day

*

November shrugged at the time the masks slipped
Stripped away in the face of high wind warnings as if in this season begged advisements cautions

Still mild that morning fooling few to believe
That this day would pass swaddled in gray soft gauze
While the light diffused diminishing increments

Was that encroaching mist unraveling like a ball of yarn
To cascade down a slope of cotton
Falling needle pinpoints liquefied

There was this puncturing of scattered shallow puddles
Reverberating in sound wave concrete circles
Auditory auditions sharpening a deaf set of eyes

In these stains of ink
Lurk faceless memories I think
Past Persona gone non-grata

November shrugged at the time the masks slipped away
To reveal the naked face of high wind awnings
As if this season begged advisement cautions

Stripped away now in alibis and warnings

Uncollected 11/13.

Fall From the Clouds

(recorded as October-Bi-polar on Quattro-Vox 2013)

The light now
At this cusp of
The season
Can change
As many as
Three or four
Times a day

At dawn
Shafts cut
Cone funnels
As light mist
Snakes S shapes
Upon the asphalt.

By noon
The sky is a bruise
And softly cries
For something better
Than what was lost
And not knowing
Just what
Comes next.

Mid-Afternoon
Perhaps Summer
May briefly return
To warm and
Take the briefest
Of bows on
The way out.

By Dusk
The chilly black eyed
Shadows like dark circles
Under the eyes
And the subsequent tears
Falling now are for real
As is the chill dark of the night.

Sometimes Grief 2012

*

In His Broken Sky

In his broken sky
bruised black and blue
shiner eyes cloud
puffy with neither
tears, remorse or scar
witness a chilly wind
strip away all the warmth
and romance off
October instantly
shredding her fading
mufti-colored petticoat
reveling pale thin
skinny limbs
foreshadowing an
ugly peep show
in November.

 

 


Haunting October

October 2017-  So tell me- when was it you wished upon what you used to know ?

Bright

Yellow Weeping Willow
hangs her head
caught in the corner of my eye
waving goodbye

Long fingers hang limp
strum the empty heaving air
moving in the tentacle string wind.

Cascading color
tangled water crest fallen
as stray estranged leaves
scurry across black gold

While the adjacent playground
is deserted of children
today

A lone fire hydrant
squats silently chipped red
not playing
not playing
at all
today.

*

Collected circa 2000

In His Broken Sky

November3

*

In his broken sky
bruised black and blue
shiner eyes cloud
puffy with neither
tears, remorse or scar
witness a chilly wind
strip away all the warmth
and romance off
October instantly
shredding her fading
mufti-colored petticoat
reveling pale thin
skinny limbs
foreshadowing an
ugly peep show
in November.

Audio on Quattro-Vox

*

October is fronting again
*
October thought itself into existence
promising color and resistance
sporadic warmth
but most of all they knew the drill
the general consensus was it was everyone’s
favorite season
Sentimental prattle
few would speak against it
but the truth was it really was all about
so much dying
a lingering some color lied to your face
and pending harvest rotted in the fields
but whatever came next
was always just a chilly gray November rain.

*

Falling Shorts 2012

*
In Synesthesia

Three kinds of listening:

Wind chimes without a voice

The incomplete sentence of silence

Lexicon stripped of shivers

When did my delight

become a dead language ?
*

Cancelled Cooking Show

When someone has
really gotten deep
into your kitchen.

You’ll never find
that recipe again.

*

October is…..

October is what
you once said
to an empty door.
*

The Spider leaves home

These are our ghosts now
trapped like ashes
in an abandoned cobweb.

*
Remember we are not….

And he had this stiletto cackle
laugh like a manic trip hammer
Woody Woodpecker

*
Never be

Try to never be
a shitty thing to do

Sure.
Say what you will
Do what you do
but if any that just means
washing your hands
to do what you had to ?

Try to never be
just another
shitty thing to do.

*
Bitten off

One might be wise to bear in mind
that all the hurt you have done
in appetite and menu
will someday return
to eat at you.

A nibble here.
a mouthful there
when you once bit off
more you could chew

So just spit it all out.

But remember
the next time you are
really, really hungry
that hurt will return
to Swallow you.

Whole.

-Got Abstract?

*

october-09-autumn-leaves-calendar-1920x1200

*

Fall From the Clouds

(recorded as October-Bi-polar on Quattro-Vox 2013)

The light now
At this cusp of
The season
Can change
As many as
Three or four
Times a day

At dawn
Shafts cut
Cone funnels
As light mist
Snakes S shapes
Upon the asphalt.

By noon
The sky is a bruise
And softly cries
For something better
Than what was lost
And not knowing
Just what
Comes next.

Mid-Afternoon
Perhaps Summer
May briefly return
To warm and
Take the briefest
Of bows on
The way out.

By Dusk
The chilly black eyed
Shadows like dark circles
Under the eyes
And the subsequent tears
Falling now are for real
As is the chill dark of the night.

Sometimes Grief 2012

*

October Older

(Recorded on Quattro -Vox 2013)

*

Pull in the soften light
as October nears past
a new moon across the sky
in the next street over
here where your absence
passes aspiration in a blur
of newer older days where
Fall emerges fresh
in still born green leaves
patches of watercolor encroach
like your temples gray
Turning away from the truth
the days are sneaking years by you
diminishing the sight
stiffening the limb
Time winding you down
your energy ebbing
singing alone in the empty driveway
the vehicle of your flesh
is late
and growing later all the while
so I still strain to hear the sounds
I need to
while resisting the same I’m forced
to endure
the terrible ticking of the now
in my ears
A sound I find
I cannot refuse or resist.

Sometimes Grief 2012

 

 

 


Lesson Plan September

September 2017- Don’t let your Pedagogy hit your ass on your way through in the classroom door.

The Colleagues Talk 2.0

Kafka on Kampus

  (for K)

As he was pulling out the parking slot on a sweltering Thursday noon

His colleague came running up flagging him down waving his arms

With this wild look in his eyes and breathlessly exclaimed

The administration has sold the naming rights to the college ! 

 He immediately pulled back in and cut the motor

Got out and stood before him and replied- say what ?

 

Catching his wind gasped that’s rightthe bastards just posted the news

On Prof talk- it’s official starting this Fall Semester this school is

Now named Kafka Kollege –a yes that’s Kollege w/ a GD K

 

No Shit he remarked are you kidding me ?

 

His colleague shook his head emphatically and continued……

 

And that’s not the half of it- all of the buildings on Kampus have been renamed

As well as part of the agreement-

All the Dorms are now called The Penal Colony

The Kampus Center is The Castle

The Theater Department is The Hunger Artist

Academic Affairs? The Judgment

English ? Parables & Paradoxes

Science ? The Metamorphosis

Public Safety ?-Before the Law

Human  Resources ?   The Trial

Student Affairs ? Give it up

 

We stood in stunned silence sweating in the oppressive summer heat

Then my colleague broke into this really strange serine smile

And purred out-

But I do have some rather good news-

Seems all the Administrators, Deans & Chairs even the President

Have been transformed into Ungeheuer Ungeziefers( literally “monstrous vermin”)

like Cockroaches and Dung Beetles

and are hiding in their offices under the desks.

Uncollected  8/2017

*

– Just what the hell is it I do for a living ?  Revisions pending

my-students

Why Johnny Can’t Think

(the blind folds are now I- phones think cyber medication )

At four they put them on
the Soporifiquil
That made them more “manageable”
in Mrs. Heyman Smallmotor’s Day Care.

Trouble was the nightmares,
at first.
Then that thing with forks
and the wall sockets.

Next medication adjustment was right before Kindergarten.
The prescription was changed to 175 grams of Confuseadril

Again.
Mixed results.
Very polite, cooperative and pliant,
but needed the script for the Preventidrool
to take the edge of the Confusdril.

They stabilized somewhat through early grade school years.
Teacher’s regularly remarked on their ability to
“free associate” in finger paint.
However the introduction of Maladroitin (with Chondroitin)
Seemed to reintroduce “extended lucid periods”

Naturally the onslaught on Puberty
and Jr. High presented some “special challenges.”

The consulting team agreed that perhaps 250 CC of
Benumbitussin might counter act some the more aggressive
tendencies but only if alternated with Mindbenderine
every other week.

This seemed to do the trick.
And no further “episodes” were reported
throughout the secondary school years
which were successfully completed with the achievement of a GED credential.

Today Johnny has little/no lingering effects from development medication.
An aggressive regimen of Psudointellextuol, Ennuigra (with Tedium),
and Phenaminafenafinaphen all see to that,

-Greetings from Gridville

 

 

 


August Ticking Away

August 2017- “Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders.”                                                                                                                    William Faulkner, Light in August

New Work- 2017 From new audio collection intended release in the Fall – details pending in Cold Millers

 

The 18th Sunday of Ordinary Time

After going to St. Agnes for early morning mass that Sunday with Edna

 

Next we stopped at the IGA

 

supermarket; Shutterstock ID 3298886; PO: TODAY Media

And I happened to run across by chance one of my poems

in the frozen food isle.

It was about 70 years no and hand on a pink pin striped shirt w/ button down collars and gold wire rim glasses sporting a dignified full head of neatly cropped

Snow white hair that when it spotted me out of the blue years exclaimed in pure

Wonderment as I crossed his path near the potato chips

Exclaimed- My God……are you still alive ?

 The nature of the observation was delivered in anything far from a

Congratulatory intonation or tone.

Stunned  I merely shrugged checked out thinking about this

after in the parking lot as I returned to the car to put away the groceries in the back seat and told my mom I forgot something inside the store and would be right back.

Marched right into the IGA again. Quickly scanning all the isles asking for it.

Spotted that sorry SOB

at the end of the succotash aisle

Ran that Poem down- and he saw me coming too none to happy about it.

 

I confronted it and introduced myself and forced it to shake my hand and

Asked just what the hell as the meaning of previous  remark ?

 

At this point it got real sheepish, with lower eyes mumbling something

About Lucky Ward hastily shoved off to meat counter.

 

And I couldn’t resist I yelled after him-

 

Yeah well- you always were a lousy poem anyway 

Uncollected 2017

*

Long Island Sound

https://www.youtube.com/embed/fN9ImKKkXfw

Now in this past of a punched ticket

at low tide I drink down this July sun.

Cathedral afternoon of canopy blue

in an endless awning sky;

 

Myself looking at the sealed plastic bag

of fiddler crabs as bait

thinking how hot and doomed it was inside

there.

 

Now after the rituals were observed

and completed nude solitary on the beach

Walking as elderly on the thousand stones

toward the water

wanting into the cold salty stinging sound

Your balls drawn up into a hard sphere

The waves at you ass the erect nipples

the water licking everything in degrees at once.

 

The excitement form the prospect of entering her

as she enter you.

These ten years past her flesh now sea better yet sound

Under this sky, bright bare to the shoreline shoulder

 

I’m dunking. Going under. Full immersion. Opening my

eyes underneath. The pressure of the silence has its

tongue in my ear. I’m coming up for air. I push off

and explode in high white foam.

 

I look back on the beach

to see who is lying under the makeshift driftwood

lean-to as the Sound breeze chops the darker blue

waters white while fluttering the contour sheet

in animated penciled in ripples.

 

And I recall falling into your eyes that moment

and never looking down

still finding I never, ever hit the bottom.

Even now.

Another Rubber Eden   7/91-2/93

*

DSCF8155

 

Ordinary Roar

 

July will linger just near the door

as it is time now to go

and in a sigh or perhaps that an ordinary roar

informs the waning afternoon in the calendars

numerical voice that your number is up.

What startles you with all its whispering are

concussions that wakes the waves to break

and erode the short eroded rocky bug infested

disappearing shoreline.

 

I hear strange voices in this ardent insistent wind.

I feel a tongue just inches from my ear that speaks

‘in that sigh or ordinary roar that these years I

was assured I wouldn’t be able to hear anymore.

All about this hazy animation of dirty white foam

driven madly on and upon.

So parade a secession of walkers across the face in

the beach. They nod or speak appearing as apparitions

that drift windblown on the most silent of feet.

Only some will find the courage to speak.

 

Scraps of paper and fragments of prose difficult to define

whip by in a helpless driven fury.

Now expression has little opportunity for introspection

or reflection. The art of language has been lost in

the stiff insistence of a brisk lake gust of wind.

And the sky above is so blue and blank

and it’s almost like time herself has slipped out

of her harness and has run on the shoreline

riding on the wind, being blown all over the beach

naked, wild and free of the sigh or that ordinary roar

of us as July lingers near the calendars door.

Another Rubber Eden   7/95

*

Her Roll Of Lost Pictures.

 

1730132-abstract-film-strip-of-b-w-negativeSo then his thunder was exposed as an endangered species.

Your brief downpour of words soaked the situation to everyone’s

dissatisfaction. They have this sure fleeting flash of

momentary light. Illumination to a la carte

Sure shows everything up. You can count on it.

But only so far for tonight. (and of course there are

expressly no substitutions.)

 

Move this night like a set of negatives never exposed

within aperture. Seems the film just never became tightly enough

twisted in a circle about the housing.

 

Much was missed. Still no one had the guts or the smarts to

question the intent. . . . but near the end I seemed to over

hear some smug talk from somebody so very intent on making

a point to everyone’s satisfaction.

 

Or was that barter: trade you your cross to bear for my axe

to grind: or Sure… you can remain the foremost expert in the

 

following category: most likely to be lost in translation.

 

I can’t change the way you waste one of the last few good

days at the start of September (like you had lots).

 

Let’s just try a small voice then saying, “if you have to

go, make the most of the season. Fall into October’s arms

already ablaze intent upon.

 

And if you find you don’t have anyone’s name to call

when autumn’s dream coat flashes some spectrum vivid;

remember how I once waited up for you call

while dropping plenty like the number of thunderstorms

left you could count on your

right hand after August.

Another Rubber Eden    9/97

 


In the cool noir shadows of July

July 2017- During the day- head for a matinee w/ air conditioning & at dusk find a Drive in Theater – In keeping w/ the Summer Movie theme on the home page. This work is presented in three formats- text-sound-vision. Then two Poems inspired by classic Film Noir classics directly below the Matinee Idol.

 

In keeping w/ the Summer Movie theme on the home page. This work is presented in three formats- text-sound-vision. Then two Poems inspired by classic Film Noir classics directly below the Matinee Idol.

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tumblr_meorskAjsM1qg39ewo1_500

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rko-logo-n1191

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hdHZ5c_0NoI

Watch (Video by Micheal Frey)

*

Mat I 1Read (from book Sometimes Grief -2012)

Matinee Idol

There isn’t any true in me
I’m just a matinee idol
on a July afternoon
hot outside
in the cool dark
shadows of illusion
I’m Technicolor lush.

I’m beloved.
I disappoint.
I endure
I abandon.
My audience
likes to watch
from the safe
distance in the seats.

But it’s my ass
plastered up on the silver screen
forced to play roles
I neither asked for
or ever wanted.

And I’m just a walk on here
not the leading man
merely a character actor
made of dreams and sand
like rising smoke curls
in the projectors white beam.

So roll the credits
and look briefly
for the momentary flash
of my name
my role
my brief hour on your stage.

There isn’t any true in me.
I’m just a Matinee Idol.

*

rko-logo-n1191*

Submitted for your approval a dark double feature of film noir poems inspired by RKO Radio Pictures

Film Noir 3_905

*

Film Noir Quote #1

I’ve got a file on you
that goes back to what
you don’t remember to
where you’d like to forget

Tension 1949

*

RKO Radio Poem

(Murder My Sweet 1944)

The world is spinning and
atop is this transmission
tower with lightning bolts
shooting forth while the sound
of Morse Code is sending a message.

This is a RKO Radio Poem
Its taken fifty plus years
to reach your ears
even traveling at the speed of sound.

Of course this poem
must be read and listened to
in strictly black and white.
The setting is post-modern urban
a north American city during
the early years of World War 2.

Seems like it is always dark.

Midnight. Predawn. The small hours.
The streets shimmer and blink
off and on in an endless variety
of neon signs.
There are shadows slanting everywhere.
And fog.
Lots of fog.

You are walking on the sidewalk
listening to your shoes crunch gravel
You walk where you are going
but ready to hail a yellow cab
if it starts to rain
which of course it will,
to wash the sidewalks clean.

This RKO radio poem stars Dick Powell
as Phillip Marlow (no Bogey, no Baby in this one)
Ann Shirley instead. And she is waiting
at the bar at the Apollo Ball room.
murdermysweet This RKO radio poem
will be told flash back style
while Marlow is being grilled in
the smoky back room
of the 37th Precinct.

The Coppers think he did it.
They want him to spill his guts.

The plot is a complicated one.

*

murder.png 2See that big ape over there
Well he just did a 8 year stretch
in the “caboose” and he’s back on the
outside looking for his Velma
She was a dancer, he had a “past”
with when he was “railroaded”
and took the fall for her.

All the Guys in the joint have suits with
Pleated Shark skin trousers
Jackets with
wide lapels and even wider ties
and various colored Fedoras
two tone shoes.

Murder 1The bartender is going to slip
somebody a “Mickey”
any second now
and the room will start to spin
and we’ll all wake up in the
State Hospital under “observation”
or hand cuffed to a wrought iron
bed frame in the back room
of a Chinese laundry.

You are going to have to fight your way back
to the “land of the living”
3703051858_bf50661786So now
You feel like your head is going to explode.
That Big Ape is plenty steamed under the collar.
Velma is still nowhere to be found.

And of course, somewhere in the middle of this
is a hysterical Dame,
there always has to be a hysterical Dame.

The Mugs in here aren’t going to like any of all this.
things are going to get plenty rough in here soon.
Everybody is drinking rot got bourbon
chain smoking Camels and watching the door.

The signal for all hell to break loose
is when the Big Ape makes his entrance
spots Velma sitting at the bar with Marlow
and discovers she’s been trying to give him the slip
all along.

Picture+46In middle of the barroom brawl
shots will ring out
and the Big Ape will crumple to the floor
plugged by his own heater.
Then the cops will show
and take everybody “down town” for questioning.

In the last scene
It’s finally light.
Well at least a grey dawn
And Marlow and Ann
on either side of his arm emerge from the
doorway of the 37th Precinct laughing
heading out for some breakfast and a hot cop of Joe.

And as they walk off down the sidewalk and
disappear into the city fog the words

The End
appear across the screen.

But really ?

The RKO Radio Poem is never over.
It’s been on television so many times
that its signal transmission has been
broadcasted through space forever
on electronic waves to the outer most
reaches of infinity to reach advanced
civilizations who because they are so
ethereal, intellectual and spiritual that
they interpret the Morse code signal
in the beginning of the movie as
divine direction and a cryptic
sacred message from their creator
about the nature reality and moral
lessons on how life should lived.
They would never doubt or question
the images they can barely comprehend
just accept them as the very living word
of there all powerful, all knowing,
omnipotent Supreme Being.

And it fulfills them and gives their lives
purpose, peace and serenity.
Why ?
Well……
“You see pal……..That’s just the way it is

-CyberStien 2009

*

kiss2

*

Film Noir Quote #2

What’s she like ?
A Dish….
She’s a sixty cent special
cheap flashy
strictly poison
under the gravy

Narrow Margin 1952

*

Hammer on a Budget

(Kiss Me Deadly 1955)

*

Kiss51_012617I believe the paperback pecking order
went once something like this:
Phillip Marlowe Sam Spade Mickey Spillane
And then Mike Hammer

Mike seems the most forgotten now
except at 4 AM in the black and white morning
movie channel with poor reception
cheap LA abundant local location stock footage
No room on a budget for sunglasses
even on Sunset Boulevard

kiss-me-deadly-de-robert-aldrich-1955

 

 

And worse yet
all his Dames keeping disappearing
and getting knocked off in
spectacularly brutal grisly fashion

*

deadly 2Especially in that one disturbing scene
with his latest blonde Doll is
suspended by meat hooks
and the Camera’s POV frames
her bare thighs knees ankles and dangling twitching feet
about 4 feet of the dancing air.

And she’s screaming
of course.

Next there’s this tracking shot
of a close up of a pair of dark rich looking
Italian leather shoes pacing
while calmly reassuring her of something.

But.
No sign of Mike.

And it’s just tough luck for her I guess

That there’s no Marlow, Spade or Spillane

this time to rescue the Doll.

-Got Abstract ? 2014

 

 

 


Take an All Star Break July 17

July 2017-Traditional piece for this time of year noting how fast the seasons passes. New Work & Live link to recent performance below @ 3 Cups 1st Ave & 5th on 6/28/17 included below.

 

All Star Game

(For the Splendid Splinter and my son)

 July sneaky fast

Summer’s clock is

 all time great passing.

July sneaky fast

Summer’s clock is

all time great passing.

will not be in the line-up tonight.

The disabled list

of the terrible now.

Besides that view

from the dugout is fine

and as close as

you can get to it from here.

June is out.

Been out.

Won’t be back this season.

August is on deck.

Looks hungry.

Rubs dirt on his hands.

Take a few practice swings.

They all dream of October.

But wonder who will be left

around to see her.

 

They know this game.

Once your out…

your…

 

Time has no extra innings here in the ballpark earth.

The Umpires name is…

 

So there is the sound of the faceless throng

roaring twilight shrouds of dusk and down the power alleys.

You make the call on the curves of youth’s shoulders.

All her tight brown curls laid out infield triangle like.

 

Do you remember the summer you polished that diamond?

 

All-star game tonight.

 

Summer’s clock is all time great passing

 

Attitude House 7/2001

 

 

*

 

The Hit Man

A Buick Sedan crawled the Providence City Street

The April Sky was baby blue .

The  air light and cool.

Perfect baseball weather.

But the man hunched at the wheel

Was in a different line up this Day.

 

His name was Maury (Pro) Leaner

Six foot two out of Brookline Mass

He was primarily a middle infielder.

 

Newspapers from Burlington NC to Walla -Walla Washington

All told the same story in the box scores.

This guy could hit.

 

Pro signed w/ the Washington Senators at eighteen

And was sent down to Rookie Ball in Erie Pa.

In 13 games he batted 167 and ended up

Enlisted in the Marines for the next two years.

 

When he mustered out in 1957 Leaner was signed on

A tip from a scout with the Milwaukee Brewers and

His contract sold to the Pittsburgh Pirates a few months later.

 

But word was getting around

Pro could hit.

 

Pirates were keeping close eye on him.

Thinking if Mazeroski or Dick Groat got hurt

This earnest respectful talent kid might come in handy.

 

That off season Maury hit 400 in Nicaragua

During the 1959-60 Winter ball season.

But Pro was growing up and changing

He was cut from the squad for missing curfews

He picked fights with Cuban players and even a few Umpires.

 

Now the scouts still said the Pro could hit

But was developing a reputation as a player

Who was self-destructive and seemed to sabotage

His own success-

 

But the talent was undeniable

Pittsburgh kept him around

But Maz never did get hurt

And won the 1960 World Series

With a dramatic home run to beat the Yankees.

Now a folk law legend he wasn’t going anyone.

 

Pro’s path to the majors was now blocked

And at twenty six was middle aged in minor league years.

 

Was released by the Pirates in 1961

Ended up catching on with Macon Packers

All the ball players were either has beens or never were

And all on the way down.

 

Leaner began to play in another league

More lucrative and room for advancement.

His stats started to pile up here too-

Armed Robbery/carrying a concealed weapon

And the new scouting reports from the Brookline Irish police

Pegged him as cheap hood Jewish troublemaker.

 

Still he could hit

308 for the Raleigh Capitals in an independent semi pro league in 64.

Teammates remarked he kept pretty much to himself

Preferring to spend hours alone

swatting a suspended rubber tire with a bat

Basement of the locker room.

 

Still on occasion he would do stuff few could explain

Like the time he smuggled a homeless hobo onto

The team bus with enough beer to last the 12 hour ride.

 

Next stop was Tennessee batting 357 for another ham & egg league

And bouncing checks, stealing hotel TVs to fence.

 

By now the scouts weren’t watching some much anymore.

But the FBI was.

 

You see Leaner’s new teammates were cheap hoods with names

Like Red Kelly, Billy A and the games were getting more intense

And he was known considered armed & dangerous with a gun or a bat.

 

In 1965 Pro graduated to the big leagues when a minor league

Mobster named Rassumsuen who was suspected on turning informant

Turned up in a snow bank with a 38 slug in the back of the head

After spending an evening at Leaner’s apartment

The investigation was on-going.

 

Word got around.

He was suspended from baseball by American League President Joe Cronin

Soon after Pro rang the bell of another mark and took a swing at his head

With his bat. The guy survived barely.

 

This caught the attention of the Patrirca Crime family

The Boston Red Sox of the underworld.

 

They put Pro in the lineup in all kinds of hits.

His latest scouting report was that he had ice water in his veins

And could hit anyone without remorse he was put up against,

 

In March 1970 a Providence jury convicted Maury (Pro) Leaner of

1st degree Murder.

He was sent to the Rhode Island Correctional Faculty with a indeterminate

Sentence of 20 years to life.

 

By all accounts he was a model prisoner.

Could swat in the joint too playing the inmate baseball team.

 

In 1980 he came to the aid of a Correctional Officer

Who was being strangled by a cord by another Con.

 

The action was noted.

His Murder conviction was overturned around Christmas in 1988

When he was released Maury was 53.

 

Leaner and his wife headed west ended up in Las Vegas.

Pro had finally learned his lesson

Doted on his son-coaching him in baseball.

 

His wife died of cancer at 56

He never remarried

 

Maury (Pro) Leaner died in 2013 at 77.

 

The news spread around the baseball world.

And all his former teammates who had gone on to the Bigs

With names like Gene Michael, Ed Brinkman, Rich Rollins

Donn Clendenon Tony Perez, Rusty Staub, Steve Blass

Rico Petrocelli , Tommy Agee, Cesar Tovar, Roy White

And even Mel Stottlemyre all said pretty much the same thing.

 

Pro could hit

Uncollected 6/17

 


June will leave you too

June 2017- Just remember this ok ?  When you get to the point ? It’s all downhill from there.

In Sonic Embrace 

Curtains in the wind*

*

June splits open
cleanly down the middle
of herself in the bedroom
just after the grayest
faint whisper that
Dawn could muster
into the folds of
curtains setting sail.

Windows wide open
to allow the night out
and perhaps the morning in.

I stirred from my dream
just enough to perceive
the bedroom awash
in a sonic embrace.

Pinpoints of color
Cartwheel in motion
to swaying trees tops
rocking in the yard below.

The respirator of late Spring
laboring in a rush
of the moisture
laden air awash
hissing in soft exhale.

Then there’s the sound
of a passing freight train.
There’s always that sound
somewhere around this
middle time of June.

In the sonic embrace
bleeding all over your face
pouring into your ears.
fans twirl in slow
languid circle overhead
Fans much more busy
buzzing at the foot of the bed.

June escapes me
as you do here.

My half-dream wakes
me in this first light.
The sonic embrace of false
Dawn.

Between the two of you
Between the two of you
I just don’t know
what I will ever do.

June splits open
cleanly down the middle
of herself in the bedroom
just after the grayest
faint whisper that
Dawn could muster
into the folds of
curtains setting sail.

From Gridville 6/04

 

Of the Summer Solstice -every fleeting evening light, wish & sigh as brief as in the wink of an eye

Summer Soul 1

1st Day of Summer

*

Solstice scimitar shaft
Slicing search torch
Gleaming longest burn
briefest pinnacle of light
declining seconds after
a descent commences….

The shadows start their
Encroaching erosion
Immediately….

Beware
Learn that lesson
From those who would
Build their world
On your ashes.

Uncollected 2013

*

Dwindling Shadows of June

June Shadow 1*

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wVfX_0PtX7E

(Audio version from the CD Quatro-Vox 2013)

In the dwindling shadows of June
dancing in her
twilight skirt
gushing vermilion liquid
time is like a broken
Capillarity in the calendars
main line artery.
You can’t hope to contain
any of the torrent
Just drown maybe baby
Because the
big drain is on
You can feel the pull
you can feel the life
leave you
diminished
ever closer to
the finish
Not some abstract
intellectual property
but a cold hard tangible reality.
Your ebbing confidence
in a narrow shallow vision
in the past semi-protected
you from the harsh truth
from too much disappointment
There are no prospects
for replenishment here
This dissipation bathed
in spectacular warm light
is waning
the dissipation grows in the encroaching shadows
and takes
what was given
in the finite
while what is being
taken away
is
infinite.

Sometimes Grief 2012

 

June Fragments

What kind of Guy was He?   3.0

He was the kind of guy

That when he heard

Ice cream trucks

On summer evening

And all he wanted was

to buy somebody

One delicious cold moment.

 

Some people

Yes.

Some people can write it

And others can do it

But only those

Who can hear it

Do anything with it

For you.

 

Let me tell you something there pal…

She had eyes

That were meant to be broken

Like a race horse named

I’ll take another.

 

 


June jumps ship

?????????????

June update 2017- See you down the road –

Notice of Vacancy

 

 This is to inform you that

The poet is not in at the moment.

We have no idea where he is

And if/when he will be back.

He could be out drinking somewhere

By himself in a place where nobody

Can get at him.

(He’s been doing that a lot lately)

Last we knew he expressed he was

Just out of words he thought mattered much anymore.

His images and sentiments ignored or

Just coolly appraised from afar without any passion  .

It’s really starting to get to him.

He realizes fully well how little

This poetry matters most days.

If we hear from him

We will let you know.

Don’t expect much

He doesn’t

but that simple stupid bastard

still hopes for you.

 

June Fragments

 

What kind of Guy was He?   3.0

He was the kind of guy

That when he heard

Ice cream trucks

On summer evening

And all he wanted was

to buy somebody

One delicious cold moment.

 

Some people

Yes.

Some people can write it

And others can do it

But only those

Who can hear it

Do anything with it

For you.

 

Let me tell you something there pal…

She had eyes

That were meant to be broken

Like a race horse named

I’ll take another.

 

1st Day of Summer

 

Solstice scimitar shaft

Slicing search torch

Gleaming longest burn

briefest pinnacle of light

declining seconds after

a descent commences….

 

The shadows start their

Encroaching erosion

Immediately….

 

Beware

Learn that lesson

From those who would

Build their world

On your ashes.

 

Did you Ever?

 

Look in the mirror

And see

A missing person?

 

Type Wrote

 

So here I am once again

Typing rope over the

Horseshoe Falls at night

shinning a spot light.

 

But not a tether in sight,

 

Sticking Points

 

You perfect prick bitch

Such an exquisite thorn

That impaled itself

Buried so deep into you

Where in the end all you

Could do was barely mange

To snap off the top

With the point still

Embedded deeply

And sure

Time I guess

Will allow the flesh to heal

Cover the surface

Of point of entry

But deep down inside

The missing fork end

Will remain burrowed intact

Like the one half

Of a pulled apart wishbone

With the only remaining question

 

Did you get your wish…..

 

Or just the short end of the stick ?

 

The Open Casket of your Face

Left only to wonder now

What was left for you

To see in the open

Casket of your face

 

When first light dawn

Whispers pale blue shadows

In a shaky wobbly hue

Filing the sky so gently

 

A pitcher of light trickling

Into the day bowl

Gradually like the touch

Of his hand upon your shoulder

 

Forgotten promises

Revived back to life

As you rolled over

Open your eyes for the first time.

 

But now there’s no one there

Quite the nothing next to you

Just the outside of the window

As God turns on the Mourning Doves

 

She fights now the memory

The feel

The touch

between the sheets.

 

Just eyes sent away

Just eyes taken away

And the voice of such

Fleeting rare poetry.

 

Silenced.                                                                                       6/2012

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her Headstone

 

I went searching for you yesterday

And of you I could not find a trace.

Forgetting to remember

You died long before

The cyber hall of mirrors

Was born without your face.

 

6/12

 

 

 


May had her say once

May 2017-  New works pending

Time pass 1

Type Rope

OK settle down now

and face the page

after a long day

of confronting all those faces

you just didn’t have either the heart

or the patience to listen

to anybody’s rehash

of just one more word

over the noise

over the boys club

numbing boozing sameness.

No instead

you bailed

to see this instead.

Get a cold one into your hand

and review the inscription

on the small of her back

with the shoulders

expressly pointed

in the other direction.

We are dancing

naked on a tight rope

everyday brings

the prospect

of  chance to fall

And just get a fresh costume

from wardrobe.

Gridville 2004

*

imagesDon’t Ask

 

Never ask when

what you know all ready

Your thoughts may escape

but you won’t.

Words might fly off the handle

but not far enough to be heard

either distinctly or accurately.

Drama is never

in short supply

in this stage flat world.

But good scripts

are at a premium

while eager bad actors abound.

If you don’t know your own lines

any better than anyone else ?

Don’t ask.

From Sometimes Grief 2012

Back Fence Neighbors

    (for Minnie)

Saw my next store neighbor

in the adjacent yard over

the fence between us on a

May evening and of course

I said hi and she asked how

I was doing?

and I replied

shrugging ok…I guess

and she said you guess ?

Yeah I went

most people when asked either

brag or complain

or worse yet ?

They explain.

Sometimes Grief 2012


April- Still not a nice girl after all

April 2017- I sing in the lawn mower Chorus resounding in the distance back to life

The Missing Thread

 

Trying so very hard

not to miss this

fragile thread.

The tail end of the shadows

contains it like it was pulling ink

in a thread line pinpoint

needles eye of the lines on this page.

 

April ignoring Spring

Back turned smirking

lusting in the gusting

of a premature barbecue twilight

gale burning hotter

wanting Summer now

Instead.

No time foreplay.

April pleading hot and fast

Jump me now

Instead of holding the fool May’s hand

 

So in the hissing high unnatural

desire there is just enough

light and heat to make you

believe out of season

you’ve got a shot at all this.

 

When April wants to really taunt March

she uses his winds like this on you.

 

The roar of Winter in the throat of a August Dog

right after the Fools day with your name written

all over it.

 

April laughing in all their faces.

Calling then just a bunch of numbers with Roman names

don’t let the calendar door hit you as it clears

your ass clear away.

 

April

Not a nice girl

after all.

Knows you and your missing thread

and shows up on an afternoon like this

to taunt and tease  you…..in knots.                                                 4/2010

 

*

Why is April the Cruelest Month ?

Hard to put a handle

on this label.

So I asked my students

who originally wrote

this line.

They “peered” up at me

with such a deep bewilderment.

All except for that one girl who sits off on the left hand side of the room

who rolled her eyes and let out a sigh while huffing indignantly ,

“I don’t even see what that’s even supposed to mean.”

 

I guess now wasn’t the time to introduce the line,

“I see myself dead in the rain”

Maybe it was the bookend of chilled dawn memory

sandwiched between the evening dusk desire frost.

Driving to work in April ice storms

to be a teacher in a County Jail

tends to make you a “little thirsty”

by the end of the day.

OK.

How about

“a lot….. of   a “little thirsty”

Perhaps it is the distance taking hold

like one real “stick it to um” bastard of a Winter.

The distance of the years gone realized

in a growing, gnawing squeezing in your chest.

But really it’s that stranger’s hand in your pocket

You know that one you discover

upon putting your own in there

to fish something out.

PP 2And it looks like somebody already beat you too it

In some other April

where somebody elses memory

picked that pocket clean

of all you ever desired.                                                       4/2004

*

*

Cardnials

In an April Moment

 

Strange perfume

Chilly Sunday

April afternoon

Ambient concussions

in oscillating cycles

My shadow lingers

in the doorway sighing

in the silent hiss of

blooming scattered

upon fitful sparse green.

New red maple buds

burst on my daughters

disfigured branches

Cardinals in pairs appear

nestled in the thick

wild golden eyes

of Forsythia.

They seclude themselves

hide deep red wings like

secret lovers

and in this late afternoon

translucent fragile light

I think the wrinkles around your eyes

and slight pout of your lips

are singing hymns of the

Terrible Now to me.

Christmas ornament Cardinals

seclude their love inside

Forsythia’s arms

while this intoxication

of the second is complete

every time when I keep my silence

you return to me.

From Sometimes Grief            2012    

*

72915245_131022625435

Lost Headstone

Why do I dream about you

around this time  ?

Spring maybe the one I sometimes forget

from year to year

pages

but not yet in the sky or the street.

Again last night

with that dream of you

the second in the

last few weeks

as I recall.

Much of the same thing

I suppose.

What I can remember about your face

It has been over ten years now.

The constant implication of

some sort of intimacy,

a closeness

we never really had between us.

Just what was it we had between us ?

I’ll never be able to ask you now.

No now I dream in vague suggestions

of somebody calling my name

from very, very far away.

You left in March that chilly season

by the time April warmed

you were all memory and dull ache.

Why it is you would insist upon

visiting me now in this fashion

during this time of the year

in a succession of dreams

causes me to wonder out loud

What I ever really knew of you

What all this veiled memory

really reminds me

No matter how close,

these shadows of you

come to me in the night

as Winter succumbs in the arms of  Spring

No matter

how my lyrical mind

wants to reconstruct the events

the landscape of our last time together

No matter what we did

or didn’t

on that May evening

in the street light’s glow

chasing darkness about the

inside of my car.

My head between your legs.

That last sentence of words

you lisp out at me

just below my threshold of hearing

All I can see now is a shaky outline

of a woman’s form directed towards me

the eyes discernible only by the glistening tears.

And then the slam of a car door

In the dream that visits me again

the same feeling.

It never happened for us.

We looked over that moment

of each other just so far… then

You walked away

back into the house.

I drove off

down the road.

And every year

at this time

the dream

tells this same story

just a little bit differently.                                                           3/0

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


April -Play ball or Not at all

April 2017-  New Season- old dreams

 

Shea Dreams

 

I don’t clearly recall the first time I saw Shea Stadium. It was newly minted in 1964. I was an eight-year-old boy at the time being led to the New York World’s Fair by my father’s hand. I have the vaguest memory of him telling me to look at the brand new stadium looming over the train platform. It made little impression. At that time of my life the World’s Fair was the big story. All the exhibits, futuristic rides, and of course, the life sized dinosaurs were all I could see and tugged impatiently at the old man’s hand after we would get off the Long Island Railroad at the new stop in Queens on the Port Washington branch.

In the future, this account would figure greatly in an epiphany of sorts, I experienced comprised of time and passage on one Spring afternoon some 40 years later.

     First off you should know, I’m not much of a big sports fan. As a boy growing up on Long Island I played sandlot “everything” like most kids. Truth was I wasn’t really very good. Never made any of the High School Teams. Closest I came to excelling in anything was softball. We had an empty lot behind our home on the shores of the LI Sound on the North Fork. And from the age of about eleven through fourteen, my summers were one long ball game.

You see that little dinky crabgrass snarled lot, seeded with broken glass and rocks had become my Shea Stadium. During this time something had happened to me. I had discovered the Mets.

I was taken to my first game on the last day of the 1968 season. Fan Appreciation Day.

They passed out winter wool hats w/ the logo on it. Of course I still have it. A fellow classmate from St. Agnes Elementary school called me out of the blue that late September morning and casually asked, “if I was doing anything that afternoon? ”…quite bored, I replied that I wasn’t. He made his proposal. I went ballistic. By this time I was well aware of Shea and the prospect of going there filled me with an excitement that I still clearly recall.

My clearest single memory is walking up that ramp behind home plate on the gray afternoon sodden in a fine drizzle and being astound by the vision before me. All that green smooth expanse of the playing surface was astounding, the starlight red and orange lights of the immense white scoreboard that stood in counterpoint to the towering ascending stadium decks of empty seats.

My God….it was real. I was about to find out just how real.

Suddenly a foul ball shot straight back and knocked out a woman walking past me.

She dropped to the concourse like a sniper had just picked her off from the upper deck. I gasped. A Hispanic kid much younger than me eagerly scooped up the ball. (it had a small smear of blood on it) and began celebrating merrily in Spanish. I looked back down a the lady out cold on the concrete, others bending over her and back up to the playing field….I gasped again……they were still playing like nothing had happened.

Next thing I remember was my friend yelling at me from an entrance tunnel about

twenty five feet away, “You gonna stand there all day or can we sit down now ?!?”

Just for the record, the Mets lost to the Astros 4 to 2.

Years pass quickly here. Sure there would be other games. All you have to say is 1969 to a fellow fan of this era and you’ll get an instant nod of recognition.

But sadly even by 1973, the Mets and Shea had faded from my focus. I was eighteen you see. Worried about the end of the Vietnam War and the Draft. I was graduating high school and leaving that June the day after commencement for California to be just another pilgrim of that era seeking his way on the road  

As I passed into manhood throughout the decade and experienced so many things that would shape my life, baseball or sports weren’t even on my radar. I had become a “drifter” in time. Lost in the miles, music, art, books, writing….I traveled in the world of ideas. But by the conclusion of that decade of the seventies, I once again had reached a turning point in my life. Disenchanted with my lack of focus and direction once more I was planning to travel back out West…this time to Northern Pacific region of the country.

 

Much like my own malaise, my old forgotten friends the Mets were in equally uncertain waters. On an April morning in 1979  I woke up with a persistent, nagging, memory of a dream fragment that lingered from the night before. In this dream I was bounding down the ramps of a ballpark at night and had this feeling that was difficult to describe. It wasn’t fear, or sadness or even joy….it just was…..like something that hadn’t happened yet or I didn’t really understand at that point in my life. I was either going somewhere or leaving something. One thing I was aware of however, the setting was oddly familiar. So on that chilly Spring morning, I dressed, checked the mail. There was a small State refund check of about thirty two dollars there. So I cashed it, got in my 64 Chevy Impala and proceeded to start driving west from the end of Eastern long Island.

 

About mid afternoon I sat in the Smith Haven Mall. Equally puzzled. Had I driven all this way to just hang here and be just another kid loitering around his lost teenage wasteland ?

The answer was no. I went back out to my car. Headed west again on the LIE. An hour later I sat in the emptiest of Shea Stadium parking lots staring intently at the deserted Sphinx like monolith, gaping silently before me.

Why was I here? I didn’t plan on going to a game. I knew enough from the papers that these guys were going to be terrible this year. But I knew what I was about to do. I walked up to ticket window and purchased a seat somewhere inside Shea. Now the truth is I don’t remember one single thing about the actual game. I think they won. But I really can’t say for sure anything beyond that.

No all I can vividly recount is was what happened to me just after that game ended. Shea in those days was the kind of place, where if you wanted “to be alone” just go to a night game like this one, so early in the year. The crowd that night wasn’t just small, man it was minuscule. So as I bounded down the darkened, soft shadowy ramps after the game, I could hear my own footsteps resound and echo.

I realized I was alone @ that moment. Not another person in sight and O yeah another thing suddenly occurred to me. I was in my dream…. from the night before !

Everything matched up. The stark revelation of dream translating into reality stopped me dead in my tracks. And I still recall that thunderbolt that flashed across my mind, “you can make your dreams happen, if you can dream/see them first.”

I drove home. Back out east, all the way the length of Long island. Ran out of gas a block away from my folk’s house. Walked home and stood in their back yard looking at my little lost softball field at midnight. I didn’t realize then, but that would be the last time I’d see Shea as it was from my childhood.

The next twenty years brought so much life and change as to constitute the “lion’s share” of a man’s life. The travel ended by the mid eighties, a career of sorts was forged, I married, started a family and the day-to-day business of life was joined.

But still always in the background were the Mets and Shea Stadium. I’d always look for it when I would be home for a visit and passed it on the LIE. It had changed. It was all blue now, with neon figures like some mid-town yuppie grill. But I still loved it. Went to a few games a year, when in town. Of the three great loves of my life, two I attended games with, the former broke my heart, the latter I would marry and the middle one was all set to sing the national anthem, but the early eighties baseball strike robbed her of that joy.

My son was born in the Fall of 1986, October 14th to exact. He was my World Series. Don’t get me wrong, it was great baseball in those days, but as I sat on the edge of the bed and watched part of that 16 inning Houston playoff game, I holding in my arms one of the greatest victories of my life. Not to diminish all the wild fun and excitement of that year….but let’s just say my attention was slightly “distracted.”

And of course my boy grew up to be a Mets fan. We’ve gone to Shea, every season, at least couple times a year since he was five. We share the experience of going to a ballgame there like none other. Recently I took his seven-year-old sister to her first game at Shea. And as my wife and I watched my son leading his sister through the familiar corridors towards our seats explaining everything about the place to her…..well…let’s just say it was another vision that Shea had provided the context for me to experience.

A couple of years ago, my son and I decided to go to the Mets’ game by taking the old World’s Fair train from Port Washington. We would get off @ the Shea Stop there. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny Spring day. Upon getting off the train, for some reason I said to him, hey kid turn left when we get up to the top of the stairs. He looked at me with a puzzled expression. I could hear his mind going, “but Dad you turn right to go to Shea”

We trudged up the old black iron steps to the top were the platform crested.

Like in a dream once more I looked down that worn plank wooden boardwalk that was once the grand sweeping entrance to the 63/64 World’s Fair. The series of peaked roofs, which were the entrance gates, stood still intact. A rush of familiar excitement returned to me, just like it did with my father, as we would approach those entrances. I stood with chills. It was the first time I had seen this picture in forty years. I got out my father’s ancient Minolta camera. Snapped away to capture this second. Almost lost in my nostalgia, I had forgotten my boy and turned around to say something to him….

And there it was. Shea. Looming like a huge castle over the Number #7 platforms. And then I really saw it. Remembered looking at it as a child almost seeing it again for the first time, a forgotten memory returned to me. I saw those orange and blue corrugated steel panels and the freshly minted, gleaming Stadium.

It was the second punch of a one-two combo from the passage of time. But there was just one more…

 

My son standing there. Almost as tall as me now. With his glove and Mets’ hat with Shea framing around him like an embrace…the look on his face a little amused…trying to be patient …..but still with that look that said…

“…. OK..OK…..Hey Dad…Can we go to Shea……..Now ?

-from the Forward to Greetings from Gridville 2006

 

                                                                                                         

Happens Every Spring

 And he wraps

his fingers

around the pen

holding it in

his hand

like it was his

favorite bat

and takes

a 1-2-3

series of practice

swings

crouching into stance

while setting his

place between the

white caulk lines

of the pages

batters box

looking out a the pitcher

and nods in acknowledgement

with a slow sure steady stare

glaring a certain degree

of due respect

but….

 

Thinking

Hell yes….

 

I can hit this guy.

– from Sometimes Grief (barks up the wrong tree) 2012

Echinacea

 

I keep hearing the first word

and the last word follow lock

step right next to each other.

 

As usual.

But lately they have

started to match.

 

The last time I heard

it on a concrete ramp

right before the first pitch

across a chilly April sunshine

hidden half sunlit and shadow

just in the next section over.

 

In smoke shrouded swirling chin

in shades yet.

Looking down in the coffee

there was this reflection

at the bottom

of my black coffee cup sea.

 

Contended to the bone.

Back sharing a solid slab.

All over it with my shoulders

in my favorite place.

 

Thinking of you.

Lyrics alive.

Taking shape behind my eyes

Pushing a song out of my lips.

 

You hidden right around corner.

All the time.

You thinking

Just what am I really seeing ?

 

 

In his line of vision.

 

 

 

It was Sanitation day @ Shea.

 

Pitcher came out

Plywood flat

BP practice fast balls

It was a blow out by the 5th.

 

I sat next to you

with my kid

in stolen seats.

While a fan

screamed out my name.

 

I sucked

He loved me

 

He wasn’t even talking to me.

 

Great Garbage.

 

It was all pretty familiar.

 

The last word

and the first.

 

All over again.

 

Fuck’n play ball

or not at all.

 

And that was never

the last word heard

or

the first word they seem to mean

 

But it was always

all I ever heard

of everything in between                                                                                            5/05

Just Following Procedure

 

Father and his seven year old son

go to a ballgame at Comerica Park

in Detroit to watch the Tigers

play visiting Chicago on a Chilly

April Calendar Day Saturday afternoon.

 

Dad’s a Classical Archaeology tenured Professor

at Michigan University. Knows about

ancient burial sites in Turkey more than something

called Mike’s Hard Lemonade.

 

His kid gets thirsty at the game,

so the old man buys him something to drink.

Figures the seven buck a pop bottle of lemonade

is just way it is at the ball park these days.

Figures lemonade is probably better for his little

one than soda, less sugar.

 

So they go to their seats in section 114

watch the game, which the Tigers

end up dropping to 5 to 3.

But neither of them are around to see the end.

 

Because in the top of the 9th a presumably bored

Stadium Security Guard notices the kid drinking

out the bottle of Mike’s Hard Lemonade and asks

the father if he knows that the stuff contains

five percent booze, thus allowing a minor to consume

an alcoholic beverage ?

 

Dad goes, “No…you’ve got to be kidding me…I never thought…..”

 

Guard doesn’t let him finish. Radios for Stadium Police for back up.

 

Just following procedure.

 

Stadium police hustle the Prof and his boy to the First Aide Station under the

stands at Comerica. Little boy under goes medical evaluation by on-duty

attending Physician.  Dad gets interviewed by the cop. Says it’s all a big mistake.

Didn’t know it was spiked lemonade. Didn’t even know they made such a thing.

Police can see the guy is probably telling the truth. Not the kind of guy to be

feeding his kid drinks in public.

 

 

Meanwhile the Doc looks over the little boy. Seems fine. Well taken care of.

Not exhibiting any outward signs of intoxication/inebriation. However does admit to

have a little “tummy ache.”

 

Police officer and Doctor talk over the situation. Both agree it’s all just an honest

misunderstanding, but neither one wants to sign off on that on the official report

of an allegation of providing alcohol to a minor. A very young minor.

So mistake or child abuse/neglect ?

 

They decide they better follow procedure.

 

Next Dad and Kid get a ride in an Ambulance to local ER for further evaluation.

 

ER Resident gives the kid a blood test. Results come back negative. No trace of

alcohol in the little boy’s blood. Seems completely normal. Well. He did cry a little.

Didn’t like the needle. Get’s worse.

 

Following procedure ER has to inform Child Protection Services. They arrive on the scene promptly. Interview all concerned.

The police officer, the father, the kid, the ER lab tech.

Everyone comes in completely in agreement. Just a misunderstanding.

 

However the little boy is under no circumstances allowed to leave with his father

considering the circumstances and further investigation. Child must be placed in an

emergency foster/safe home for the weekend.

 

Just following procedure.

 

It will be two day till on Tuesday Morning local Circuit judge who handles

preliminary investigative information from CPS determines

that the child can return home to his mother. But only if her husband, the professor

moves out to a hotel till all this can be thoroughly sorted out.

 

Just following procedure.

 

It will be week till Dad will be allowed to return to his own house.

 

And that’s the end of that. No moral. Reason. Warning. Apology.

 

If fact if anything I’m the one who is really sorry here that all this doesn’t

make for a better poem.

 

Guess I’m just…..

 

just following procedure.

                                                                                              from the Terrible Now 2009   

  The Poetry Pitcher

 

Listen there kid

if you want to get

up here and throw in

this game

there are a few things

you had better know

right off the bat.

Plan on going the distance.

Plan on going 9

Forget all this BS

about pitch counts

quality starts

or just wanting to contribute

and help the ball club.

Useless clichés

About as useful

as PB plywood flat fastballs.

Take my advice

If you are lucky

enough to be given

the ball and stand up on this mound.

Don’t even think about

being done until the job is finished

and its’ been put in the books.

Sure you want to show off your heat

your fast ball

you want to blow them all away.

Firing aspirins

is only cool if somebody has a headache

and changes are you’re the one

that gave it to them.

Sorry kid.

It will bore them

Put them to sleep.

You’ll fail to connect

and be yanked early.

So mix up your pitches

Don’t tip your next delivery

Use the change up

Sharp breaking Sliders are cool.

Good Curve balls are a delight.

Just keep pitching in there.

Move along.

Don’t take forever,

keep the game moving

and if he crowd get’s restless

and you think you’re not getting

the right calls on your stuff’s  location ?

Don’t get pissed

and start throwing chin music

at people’s heads

Dangerous stuff

bean a nut bag like Jimmy Piersall

(and believe me there’s always one out there)

and they will charge the mound

or wait for you after the reading

outside the Café to kick your ass.

Sure you can brush them back

move them off the plate

give them something to think about.

Purpose pitches are useful in that respect.

But have a point out there.

So think carefully about throwing a lot of junk.

Not everybody loves, gets or appreciates

screwballs, knuckleheads and spitters.

O I meant knuckle balls.

You’re going to need those too.

Big iron ones.

Not everybody is going to get your stuff

In fact better get used to the idea of

catcalls, booing and hecklers

but probably the most common reaction

you can expect is indifference

silence and scouting reports that call you wash

up before you get your shot and your best stuff

weak punch and Judy can’s of corn.

You’ve got to expect this.

Remember you aren’t the whole game up there.

You’re only one player

Sure you’ve been given the ball

The chance to throw for strikes

to be the one in the center of the diamond

For crying out loud do yourself and

all of us a big goddamn favor

Act like you belong to be out there.

It’s all anybody can really ask.

                                                                                                  Terrible Now 2009   6/2009


It’s Marching past you

March 2017  – Did you ever get back that hour we lost together once upon a time ?

Time after time…..Time to go…….No time for this…..Time keeps on slippin’ slippin’ slippin’ into the future…..The time is right…..This is not a good time…..The Terrible Now is the time ……No time like the present…..Take time to smell the roses…..Time will tell……If the third time is a charm, is the fourth a curse ? Time is of the essence…..Time heals all wounds……Only time can heal a broken heart…..So many [insert your own word], so little time…..Running out of time……It is just a matter of time……Passing time……Killing time…….Timing is everything….It is about time….Time of your life…..Time’s a wasting…..All in good time….Time marches on your face and all over your ass…Desperate times…….May you live in interesting times….It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…..Time is money, but your account is overdrawn…..Treading  time….Your  time has come….All the time…End of times ….One at a time….  Time ‘s up…..Time is not your friend…..Time together….time apart…..somewhere.

Daylight Stealing Time

 

So we lose a little time

in the wee hours tonight

We steal the hour here.

Conspire to hide.

 

O Please don’t wonder where.

 

C’mon…

Squirrel away an hour in secret

Pull backwards at the hands of the clock face.

Tick along with me.

 

Let’s make the red finger talk

as it passes us by again and again.

 

Tonight we turn back time

Won’t you turn back some time with me.

Like crisp clean chilly starched sheets.

Peel away the day

and slip in between.

 

Won’t you turn your back on some time with me

upon that maybe once perhaps we just might agree.

 

We might steal that time

hide in the lost hour

put it away somewhere

where they’ll never find it

never even miss it.

 

In the cool clear evening

after all the daylights busy color has faded

and all that is left is just us

clearly a jail break

a common escape

is in progress.

 

I hear sirens in the distance.

I see sirens in your eyes

They report an all points bulletin.

The authorities are baffled.

As we speak

Roadblocks are being planned.

 

Officers will produce snapshots

of our expired images

The ones we once looked like then

in the silence of the hours

we stole.

 

Our crime

is public knowledge.

The purpose of the theft

was always open

to common conjecture.

The motive attributed

to persistent desire.

 

It is after all

the only clues

we will leave them with

even if

our fingerprints

are all over each other.

After we are all over everything.

 

Won’t you turn your back

on some time with me

upon that maybe

just once perhaps we might agree.

 

To get away with

one secret perfect crime.

 

 

Spring 99/05 Attitude house

 

Recent work- & some selected March fragments from past collections

dscf7134

 

The thaw you never saw

 

The streets that evening

Ran loose grey gutter sluice

As the temperature rose blossoms

Definite season in neon curb pools

That first empty page in the next notebook

Used to shake you- conspire to define

That shadow you might cast if any light

Happened to find you.

 

Admit it at last

Written on note of the next singing line

It May or May not in December return to you.

Or even you to it on the end North Fork

Where you have this cameo appearance

The years taking you to task and

Re-gift in retread stuffing her stocking

with all the ghosts that you managed to out run

Briefly

as they were running just as fast from you in the other away.

 

Still- they get crossed up still thinking

Can we still steal seconds between us

3/2017

*

Fragments of the March

 

14967047733_9937161526_bLight upon the lake

Waves frozen in mid-break

 

Broken Shafts of weak March sun

newly poured upon cracked and

shattered sheets of hyper-white

entrenched ice

a history of persistent bitter air

trapping flowing waters still born

beneath.

 

Light upon the Lake

waves frozen in mid-break

 

Barely Marching sun

arrested impressions

strange frigid contours

rivets of pressure

compacted tighter

isobars deceptive surface

unlikely to support any weight

 

Yet enough to entrap

a fool’s misstep

 

Light upon the Lake

Waves frozen in mid-break.

 

3/2011

 

Of texture and Color

 

meyersonarthur2015-400x400Waiting in the door

the bartender with some

exasperation shrugged

all I heard was a spicy bloody Mary.

 

I nodded in agreement and immediately wrote down

You change the pens color in me.

 

It was the crème feel to the page

somewhere in the sheep and oil skin

 

To the touch that defines the lines content

in context calling in a fluid hue

all that two parallel paths

can carry between them

all they can contain

in the ear that listens

closely for what the eyes sees

left for you upon

the creme of the page.

 

You can’t touch color

or so they say.

 

However the request to bathe

in tone and shade is to extend

to reach out the hand and try

 

Touch were all the colors

never answer to their proper names

and refuse to simply run out and dry.

 

mustang_artPerhaps then it is that desire

to request the color of the pen to change

is what so very few can do for each other

-to each other.

 

No one chooses anything here

The first glace into the others face

that rings the bell or

reverberation between

the four eyes looking into

the creme of the page

as it goes……………..ding.                                                      3/11

 

 

Mad March World

 

dscf4018In this light

March simply has

no where to go

but……on.

 

The step in the day

a longer presence

of illumination into

the afternoon later now

every new year born

in this same way.

 

There is this sense of urgency

a sort of headless Madness

that ignites

brittle tree limbs to

fan fine struck fingers

in complicated silhouette

 

ink-bottle-parchmentflung across the horizon

like a bottle of India ink

spilled and splattered

upon a pale blue sky page.

 

I send these words

mere reflection

auditory stenography

dscf6479purely dependent

on perception systems

beyond my grasp or control

 

Along the prescribed channels

as the pale blue light

drains the light

from the sky’s page.

Sometimes Grief -barks up the wrong tree   2012

 

 


Shorter Dog February 2.0

February 2017- New Work & a Short Story from Terrible Now 2007 reprinted in Short Dog Stories 2013

shattered-clock-1

So Sonic 2.0

We are so sonic

in tragic desperate dissipation

living with as much dissolute passion

in a quarter of the allotted years

left in the gas tank of youth

with the needle

sinking towards E.

Running now on pure desire

the last burn catching up to us

now would allow

one last glorious gallon

rubber burning acceleration

after dreaming

a lifetime of this

pedal to the metal

sonic furry driven between

us and away.

                                                                5/07-2/17 (uncollected)

*

Henry VIII TudorThe Clock struck in Twitter time to post. POTUS adjusted his bathrobe and palmed his device thinking as he snapped off the remote on the telescreen snarling time to teach those Idiots the lesson for today.

Sleep eluded him most nights. All six telescreen Hi def 48 inch hype cyber link realty blared on 24/7

The Leader had one in every room. All Staff had strict orders. These windows on his enemies were never to be off line

Sometimes of late he would walk the halls in the White House in the wee hours.

the gravity of his position was not even lost him.

Thinking I have the codes- is this what it’s like to be God ?

Abruptly his teenage son burst through the door

Eluding the Secret Service detail-

Asking- Hey Dad I have a question for you

 Uncollected 2/2017

*

*

Your Ad Here

     Becker Desire gradually became aware of the blinking LCD sensor on the nightstand next to his bed. A pale blue light gathered behind his blackout curtains (which didn’t open) indicating daylight of some sort. These days it was always merely a matter of just to what degree the constant gray would lighten to. There hadn’t been a bright sunshine day in the range of his limited memory. Desire was barely 12 years old. Becker was one of the lucky ones. He had his own comfortable habitat cubical and an employment. Two conditions of modern life for young people in those days and times that was very scarce and coveted. Becker’s parents were dead. Well that might not be true. He knew his father was. His benefactor. Before his suicide two years before, he had “sold” his son into this position. Becker was a Guest Host. Desire’s mother could still be alive. He doubted it. She had been exported to the local Cable Access Porno Pool and Community Chest when he was very small. He remembered her as being rather pretty and young.  Life had become very cheap, brief, and brutal on earth in recent years. The rich still lived well. The rich always manage to live well. True they accounted for a very small percentage of the still dwindling population, but they controlled the government and the army. The only problem was they tended to get bored.

That’s why they had Guest Hosts. That’s why Becker had a job.

Scrambling to punch the first circuit prompt w/ his consumer valuator, Becker lost his balance tangling his feet in the bed sheets and fell hard and flat on to the floor, smacking his head with a loud resounding

 

THWACK

  Instantly the room erupted with laughter and approval. He shook off the blow and barely made it to the portal with his card to insert before penalty and the first corporate commercial jiggle blared across the room.

 

There was the sound of relief and approval from the monitors.

 

Another day had begun.

 

That was a concept Becker was increasingly falling out of touch with. He knew he was allowed a sleep cycle of varying length every fifteen hours. Becker had no concept of time in the traditional sense, much less free personal time. As Guest Host every single action, choice or movement in his habitat cubical was monitored, speculated and wagered

 

upon. The vast void cyber audience made up of the affluent and privileged casted votes and gambled credits upon the outcome of all Desire’s consumer decisions. And he had better log in and make them precisely on time. As long as he maintained a certain amount of profit margin for the system where thousands of other Guest Hosts (like himself) toiled with endless consumer choices, his “job” was safe.

 

However the only two real aspects of reality he was terrified that he truly understood was his “Expiration Date” and “service interruption”. Both contingencies were fatal to his rather comfortable, stable way of life.

 

Becker Desire knew next to nothing about the state of his own country or the world in general. When he was seven he was given an intelligence/aptitude test to determine him as “Serviceable” (able to do maintenance jobs) or “Expendable” (bright but of no real utility or value) Society & the social order had caved in on itself. Conditions were bad. Very bad. Indeed everything that could have gone wrong in the dawn of the 21st Century in fact had. From a general environmental collapse (fragile all ready but hastened by a limited nuclear exchange over the old blood feuds in the middle east, there were no winners, instead Israel and Iran no longer existed and surrounding oil fields were now going to be radioactive for the next 500 years) to an ensuing global economy’s evaporation, the only real thing that still was robust and functioned fully was perversion and greed. The internet had continued to flourish in a most bazaar fashion. Civilization (what was left of it) was regressing to a very basic subsistence existence as quickly as it had climbed above it during the 1900s.

 

Desire only knew he had choices to make. And he better make the right ones or his easy way of life was over. While he knew next to nothing about the outside world, he was sure it wasn’t good. He had no idea even where he was outside of his four walls. He might be on the grounds of a military compound or in the basement of a wealthy citizen. His shipment of supplies slid down a chute on a regular basis along with a program log. All foodstuffs, personal hygiene items, clothing, entertainment options (DVDs, CDs etc) literally everything an eleven year old could want or imagine was provided wordlessly and without human contact.

 

Becker Desire never saw anyone in person. He had been drugged in the middle of the night a long time ago and had awakened in here with a headache, an audio file of introduction, job description and operating instructions for being selected as a Guest Host.

 

The following is an excerpt of the introduction greeting transcript:

 

Congratulations…insert name here  on being chosen as a Guest Host. This exciting and important position is a coveted opportunity for you to help shape, sustain and guide your nation’s essential consumer choices. Many very important and wealthy fellow citizens are relying on you to assist them in putting our great nation’s economy on the road to solid recovery and prosperity. Everything you need will be provided. Make good decisions. Wise consumer choices. Remember we are all counting on you. Remember you are the hope and future of a brighter tomorrow. So good luck insert name here. our newest Guest Host !!!

 

At first Becker had no idea what they were talking about or what was expected of him.

But Desire was a fast learner. He had to be. There was little margin for error.

 

The Guest Host was a mediator between a strange Post -Modern hybrid of E-Bay, Las Vegas and the old Nielson ratings system.

Rubbing his head Becker went to the bathroom. It was time to make his first choices of the day. What tooth brush, paste, mouthwash, soap, even toilet paper would he use?  He had a dozen to choose from. This combination of these basic items could make thousands of credits (there was no longer paper money) to be won or lost in his first ten minutes of his consciousness. Speculators were wagering credits upon who was wagering credits on his choices and further more there was heavy action on whether he would make it back to his log in station on time. Double or nothing. Becker had to log in to the system every few minutes and that schedule changed from hour to hour. In addition, there were those voyeurs who were always watching the little boy.in his most intimate  moments and with the prospect of puberty looming; surely his masturbation habits would cause both ratings and wagering to spike. How many times a day could he do it? Whose porno did he find the most interesting? What kind? The possibilities of that seemed endless. Desire was a hot property and his stock was on the rise. Every wall of his habitat cubical was covered with immense flat screen HD displays all showing different commercials and ad campaigns based upon the products he was provided with and encouraged to choose. And of course there was more wagering and speculation on that connection. In addition each screen had embedded video camera units transmitting his actions. There was virtually not a single action or movement of Desire’s that was not generating action, perpetuating distraction and entertainment, revenue streams for a degenerating culture trying to keep the collective mind off its own demise.

So the time passed. When Becker ate. They bet. He watched DVDs. They wagered. Listened to CDs. They speculated. Lost and won. Personal fortunes came and went, acquired and were squandered based upon every single trivial pre-teen preference that could be generated to occur in a controlled speculative environment.

Becker was aware of his tenuous position. He could be cancelled at anytime. He had an Expiration Date. Most Guest Hosts rarely survived past the age of sixteen. In rare cases, there was thing called Syndication that Becker didn’t really understand, that might extend his shelf-life (an alternative name for his present existence) for a few years.

The other more immediate threat was the dreaded and terrifying “Service Interruption”

This had happened twice since Becker had been in this place. It had only lasted a few seconds, but everything shut down. Everything. Complete separation from the mainframe. If Becker was off-line for more than 30 seconds the speculation on whether he would make it back live on time before he was dropped might sustain him for about two-minutes. Attention spans were short these days, plenty of other options (i.e. Guest Hosts) and time of course was money. The infer-structure grid system that kept the internet operating was deteriorating all the time. Becker had no way of knowing this.  But on the outside all supporting frameworks were not only over-taxed, but more failed and went off line permanently every day.

Desires interior intellectual and emotional world was pretty much flat lined between his constant duties of the guest host, choosing for others and making them money, being completely inundated and overwhelmed by a steady flood of vapid massed produced visual and audio stimulation that amnestied as it etherized. But he had one favorite file.

It was left over from his father. And he had found it in a rare free period during his sleep cycle when he was restless and wide awake one time early in his career on a DVD compilation of animation he was supposed to view and make a determination on.

It was something called an Old Warner Brother’s cartoon. His father used to watch it with him and laugh, in what seemed like another world and lifetime a long time ago.

He didn’t understand who the obnoxious parody of Red Riding Hood in Bobby Sox was. In fact he didn’t even know the Little Red Riding Hood story. Who that Big Bad Wolf was. The grandmother. The talking rabbit. He could not fathom the world that had produced such a rich dance of song and color. But he remembered his father laughing

and him laughing along with him. And the song that girl used to sing;

. …….ta da da da dad da..  The five o’clock whistles on the blink, The whistle won’t blow and whadd’ya think? My pop is still in the factory ’cause he don’t know What time it happens to be. .The five o’clock whistle didn’t blow. The whistle is broke and whadda’ya know? Oh! Who’s gonna fix the whistle? Won’t somebody fix the whistle? Oh! Who’s gonna fix the whistle? So my poor old pop will know. It’s time for him to stop….

  And that ending. That rabbit and bear sharing a carrot while the girl piled high with heavy furniture in her arms, sweated and strained spread eagle over a shovel of white hot coals looming closer and closer. He never understood why that part was supposed to be funny or why they had done that to the poor little girl.

But now he knew how the girl had felt.

She was just about his age. She didn’t look like she understood anymore about the position she was in than he did about his current one. She just kept looking down as her bottom sank closer to the fire. It was only a matter of time. He wondered if the Talking Rabbit and Big Bad Wolf were wagering on how long she would last.

Becker Desire was waking up again. He could see the pale light behind his curtains.

Only something was wrong. Very wrong. There wasn’t any flashing light waking him up.

His screens were all dark. Lifeless. Worse yet, the perpetually sealed entrance door to his habitat cubical was open ajar. He could smell smoke. Voices were yelling something in the distance.

Desire instantly knew what had happened and what was going to happen next.

All bets were off.

                                                                                                   7/08

*

February Shorts 2012   Collected in Got Abstract ?

 

unhappy-little-one

Overheard outside the Pre-K Room

 

And Sara just barely

four screamed in

such exasperated

soap opera desperation…..

You’re ruining my life

 While a little boy with

moon shaped head and

big oval eyes remarked

He’s got purple all over his face…

 

How does he live like that ?

 Kids.

*

A Beer in Winter

 

Tonight it feels like

I’m drinking beer

with Dr. Zhivago

Laura’s not coming

but she did send

her wolves.

*

Blow Me

 

Sure.

She took a lot of wind

out of his sails

only fair

she put it there

in the first place.

*

My Face Won’t Book

 

His memory is

just this untied

website shoe lace now.

 

Put that one

up on your fucking wall.

*

If the shoe fits

 

Don’t get to excited

you probably have it

on the wrong foot.

Idiot.

 *

You could count all the Carnies in Canarsie

in your last ride on the Cyclone

 

That Amusement Park

of broken hearts

is regrettably

closed till further notice.

 

Seems all the rides ?

 

Got old…..

 *

Dirty Rose

 

And he finally

spit the bit

like

a dirty rose.                                                                  2/12