Monday, July 27, 2009

The Evening Meal

The night lusted for viscera
like a swarthy shark
breaking a long fast.

I smoked the last cigarette
creased like a broken gimp
in the crackling
see--through pack,

tossed the cellophane quick
towards the black sidewalk
and mowed the spaced out
pedestrian right over
in my great-aunt’s rusted
Studebaker.

Tire tracks on his torn
and bitten back
couldn’t keep
us both
from laughing
so hard and loud
whores heard us
two oafs from at least
a block away,

and we made cracks
about the stiff
stacked on the curb
like old cons
on the lam,

bowed and said our bit
to the dashboard
Buddha lookin’
kinda’ fat
not so pretty

even eyeballed
through the glow
of straight and tasty
bourbon.

Voracious sharks
we were that night
happy as fuckin’
clams,


then wondered what
in heck there was
to do now,

what else we
could next destroy
in this damn
nutritious city?

Saturday, July 25, 2009

LET'S

let’s meet in the alley back of your house
in the sweet early light of the weekend

let’s swill cheap booze by the bucket
say ‘fuck it’ to schedules and sway
willy nilly to the tunes of Lucy and Dezi

let’s run nude through the park at the end
of the block, raise our fists to the birds
in the trees

let’s buy diamond rings for our neighbors,
the Sloan’s, and hope that Ma Sloan
never more roams outside of connubial
bonds

let’s sit on our deck at end of the day
sunburnt with sweat milking our breasts
and dead drunk as two resting doves

let’s fall into sleep deep on our willowy bed,
both beat as bums on a freight train for weeks,
we’ll dream of more bad liquor tomorrow..

Friday, July 24, 2009

Alfred,Our Boy

Ants stabbed and slashed their way compulsively
into this small upstairs apartment single file
through the slit in the living room’s thin skin
like demented birds gone mad on blood rampage

while the fat Catholic boy from across the pond in merry Britain
marches to a distinct and shady drummer on a November day,

one ear smiles cautiously open to a recondite symphony as
the other lonely pink one grins to itself on the left side of his head

screeches and screams stream from behind an unseen plastic shower
curtain and his good less guilty eye spies then penetrates a lofty church
steeple through the din and hazy double cross of New York’s American skyline.

Can any story sate,
what shall save
the future master of suspense
from his vertiginous fate?

Hours later in the deep of dark
he obsesses about svelte blondes
knives and tormenting secrets,
lays immobile on a narrow cot
in the basement of ‘The Young Mens’
Christian Association’,

ants march fixatedly
over the curved dome
of his belly,
strangely here alone
shrouded in this quiet curtain
of foreign time and fog
he finally finds his nerve
begins to feel at home,

prays in his own way
for many plentiful good
revenges,
gratefully he dreams
the sweet shocks and graceful
edges of human betrayal
being artfully unlocked

and finally portrayed.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

HEAT AND LIGHT

Coffee darkens the cracked streets
of Havana as communists float
in their faded green fatigues
eat wilted vegetables with
yellowed teeth half-hidden behind
tight forced smiles and stuttered
proclamations

their boots fall apart
as they limp on
cobblestoned calles

the whole country
has travelled and spun
languished in circles of rum
for too many miles

across the warm waters
powdered sugar paints and covers,
coats like flaking old plaster these
broken down chairs
which litter Jackson Square
a block from the levee
in pre-Katrina New Orleans

where tired astrologers wait
at uneven card tables
in capitalism's sweat
for clients with money at
the foot of the cathedral
in thick sweltering air

beneath the swim and lyric of place
imagined or explored are these
memories of poets
who often stumble and strain to hear
each word and phrase
against the bumble and hum
of such frustrating cultural din,

still, the lacey day and
its musical phases
are dusted with light,
tranquilly composed
within the transformed
coffeehouse nestled right
here on a quiet corner
in Kensington’s ageless
open heart.

And their boots
fall apart
as they limp
on cobblestoned
calles.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

MOTEL KEEPER (for Alfred H.)

the slender young fellow tended his worn out motel
like a new father ambivalent about a newborn
deformed child still shiny with birthday mucous

until the wild night’s rainstorm dropped
a delicious blonde with wads of purloined cash
eyes frozen with existential guilt
from dry unfriendly Phoenix onto
his splintered doorstep,

inside his boyish silky skin he was
hardly mild as he felt a first
stirring in the loins
momma would not approve of..

later after passions had risen and fallen
under a gaze of stuffed birds and their
silent guises,

(they’ll never utter a peep)

a persistent slicing of forbidden desire into the heart
of the red slick evening as a silvery blade
penetrated a warm shower in an uncurtained
cacophony of symphonic union

she, unclean aglow with soapsuds in this
her final time

slumped slow to the tiled floor, never muttered
or whined a chirp,

as the sprayed slurp raged strong
onto empty porcelain,
and carried the strange night forward….

and the keeper’s thirst was not quenchable,

no, her clenched bewigged thirst
was far from being quenched..

blue eyes

blue eyes sear
through open space,
blank walls become new
and fresh like rusty orange

and the scent of early Fall,

erased scrawl begets hints
of the immanent All
in less than seconds,

a lone cat in its frail strife
starts to wail and bawl,

each moment
opens,
sing and
glistens,
and yes,

we in our guilt
and innocence
begin
again our
small intimacies:

we begin to hear
and listen.

Monday, July 20, 2009

The Drive of Development

Life feels so ragged and overrated,
sometimes so uncheery
on this ever winding road

(with outdated maps and the price of gas
why aren’t we all more leery?)

chock full of bitter ruts and
anti-mattered axle-busting
digging straight to China black
tarred and vacant holes

each car or truck we’ve driven since
the acned days of high school now dead
and junked, upholstery frayed, ashtrays
full of mold,

replaced by something shiny new until
it too becomes unglued, deteriorates,
smokes and sputters, chokes and stalls
in the cigarette butted gutter,

yes we too shall one fine cool day find
our brokedown fragile mortal selves
real ready to be TRIPLE-A hauled
and towed

as our own sweet time arrives
to be further moved (ungoaded)
along the blinding holy road.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

HOME INVASION--THE ANTS GO MARCHING

Tiny anorectic ants brazen as paparazzi
at Michael Jackson’s funeral undonned ratty
black ski masks and dropped their designer
sunglasses outside my screen door,

before I could scream ‘shake ‘n bake!’
echoes of ‘mission accomplished!’ rattled
my living room transformed into a nightmarish
seething volcanic lake, an earthquake
of itching and incessant bitching eons
beyond Richter’s wildest dream,

I’d been shocked and awed, awed and shocked
by this odd tawdry attack on body and more,
felt naked and alone as an old whore of a priest,
evidence stacked high up against him,
defrocked pilloried in stocks before acres
of peon believers lined up to judge in unrelenting
Italian sun at St.Pete’s Basilica with no way home,

these infernal scoundrel insects of the strategic
linear invasion bullied their egregious way
into my once quiet life, dissected my calm
like a steroided-out Yul Brynner at a hair
transplant convention for meth addicts
or worse,

even my blue haired Scandinavian grandmother awoke
in her Wisconsin grave by such madness and furor
such scratching and itching wailing and twitching
spoke to whoever could hear whether far or near
‘what the fuck, is our sweet dear homeboy shit out of luck?’

(Last time I looked judge and jury were
still out to a very late lunch.)


As I scratched with no plan no scheme
to survive this murderous unmerciful onslaught,
I wondered and hummed, murmured to my entrapped
dumb self as I took off the gloves, oh all powerful
god high high above, what hell on your earth
hath this day been wrought??

Friday, July 17, 2009

day's time

I sat slow
minutes
in the white
Ikea chair

still as
a shelled
almond

roasting
easy
in time’s
warmth,

contented
compact

not suffering
from lack.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

more itching

THE ITCH commenced
in the morning of my ass
deep or superficial I
could not discern

from pinkish corners
or the darker core
wherefore this sensation
I dare not suppose

small relief happened
with the passing of gas
like a mini-vacation
or laugh track on the tube

for days a suspicion
of invisible bugs
had flooded my mind
tweaked my skin crazy

I sit and type
these war-torn thoughts
note the swift bite
wreaked piercing
of skin

(oh my God high above,
has a Taliban of bugs
snuck its way in?)

from time to time
there’s this sudden
ambush on a
vulnerable limb

as I send forth
my nearsighted
bleary-eyed scouts

who look-out for
ski-masked
black ants
and transparent
mites who flitter
like jetstreaming
Tinkerbell's tits

and are filled
brimful with
malicious
intent

secret harbingers
of possibly worse,
ongoing assaults into
tight hidden caves
of this worn
down body,

of that portentous
misfortune
I unfortunately
fear.

first date

The rare ladies of Matamoros
never wear sunscreen
wave silken red scarves
through upstairs windows

beckon us squeamish teens,
excited as hot cats
on baking cobblestones,
inside their spare home.

we turn off idling cell phones
thrust open the wooden door
step slowly up twisting stairs
wonder what mom would think?

down the hill in
our dark favorite bar
two hours later without
the dear helpful ladies,

playful celebration ensues
a laughing toast or two,
stories several drinks

time to pay the bill
stumble home
to doze and dream
like fat replenished cats

reaching for back pocket wallets
we each find only empty cloth

stammering, feeling stupid
now we start to learn
the true net cost of
our first date

and of being burned
by the sultry
silky ladies
of Matamoros.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

the itch


THE ITCH
commenced
in the morning of my ass
deep or superficial I
could not discern

small relief happened
with the passing of gas
like a mini-vacation
or laugh track on the tube

for days a suspicion
of invisible bugs
had flooded my mind
tweaked my skin crazy

I sit and type
these war-torn thoughts
note the swift bite
wreaked piercing of skin

from time to time
there’s this sudden
ambush on a
vulnerable limb

as I send forth
my nearsighted
bleary-eyed scouts

who look-out for
ski-masked
black ants
and transparent
mites filled
with malicious
intent

secret harbingers
of worse, ongoing
assaults into
tight caves
of this worn
down body,

of that misfortune
I unfortunately
fear.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

what comes next

mist rises and falls
with your breath

the sea shouts in waves
the myriad names
of our dead

gulls scream their
obscene pitch
above the din
of the day

pungent pine wafts
through air
like an arrow
shot straight
to pierce the softest
of marrow

or an oft avoided
appointment
with dread

Sunday, July 12, 2009

CitySummer

I love the way a city in summer
swaggers and swelters,
its visitors and citizens
sway hips of all sizes
mop dripping sweat from thin
and thick skin in the sizzle of heat

its potholes subways brown/
stones cinemas and lunch carts
offer such sweetness
such shelter from crowds
in their mad dash and welter

I love how the streets straight
and narrow or broadly curving
with their drivers bikers and walkers
bring cool songs of surprise
soothe the burn of red
tired eyes
time after time

I recall the joy of riding the number '6'
bus in July, that Jeffrey Express,
half asleep and cooking
towards downtown’s
magical towers

as we of every color and shape
stand crammed so close that
showered scrubbed bodies
can’t but mingle and rub,
gradually start our slow
difficult wake up

and feel the young black driver
suddenly belt out a love ballad
from vibrating lips
crazy loud behind a steering wheel
big as a ship as he sits and steers us
happy glad from his funky brown
leather seat

(real beauty IS so strong so sweet)


that even work early Monday
stuck within an eleventh floor
rectangular office on Jackson
is now almost mythic in scope,
complete, this day
the perfect
temperature
of hope.

dear relatives in their dotage

Uncle Carbuncle made his stand
(not his last I do hope and
might parenthetically add)
but his plump lively spouse of
these many meandered decades,

years not quite squandered yet
blundered somewhat
with her flaxen hair in plush braids
and lips tender as fish
sat beneath his great bulk
in her final fertile tirade
and pouty temptress sulk

while the river Nile like a scoundrel band
of amputee pirates thick with rum and mud
roiled and rushed through plundered miles
and ancient unburied histories of family life
and quite confused unending
hierarchical social strife,

yes Uncle Carbuncle was
a man of dumb mute luck,
enfogged in rainy curtains
of Hitchcockian mystery
but his dear wife,
the unwidowed Aunt Agatha
was a 2 eared winsome
exploratory Christian gal
radiant with clear squeaky clean
compulsive light,

a true blue fountain
who gushed forth a fat rump
of hopeful plenty
a lofty tush for the Unc to caress
and pinch on the sly with nary
a harrumph,

his darling wife so unmild
and silently wild
like a quiescent prayer
or animal of laughter
to fuck in the rosebushes---
let us praise the skygods
and not the hereafter--
she, thank the good lord,
is so damn flush with life!

Thursday, July 9, 2009

Princely Wishing

Princes dance and sway on swollen corks
from wine bottles sour and mired in weird fluid
where we already cavort like fine young things
on stolen holiday.

Wishes blow between our waiting eyes and curving lips
in submarine season while the maples and the bent ash waft
easy in the breeze and nowhere else may beckon
but not matter yet somehow still pleases us together.

So, take this little poem and stick it under or behind
a solid rock or perhaps within a fine crack or wiggly little line
where only little people take the time to sit and speak
of paintings ripe with color sparkling bright and clean
like bunches of plump wet grapes or summer’s freshest limes.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

SShhhhh....

....quietness
sifts
downwards
infiltrates
the soft
bumpy
turf
of the
greenest
Autumn
mountain
like
four
or five
chums
playing
football
without
speech
or shout
in the
afternoon
of
gentle
rain,

buzz-cut
friends
not
speaking
once
yet
exulting
constantly
as
golden
catches
and
tosses
play
out
their
simple
exalted
missions
as
even
the
usual
eager
grasp
and
plump
thump
of
palms
and
gleeful
fingers
stretched
to
capture
pigskin
in
free
fall
from
the blue
swirl
of
space
is
muted
almost
holy
like
a
mountain
tall
broad
and
smoky
inside
dusk’s
first
curling
words.

Sunday, July 5, 2009

Stinging Summer Music

My pocket size digital camera
points up and towards a dark gray
palm tree pattern
stenciled and embedded
as nature’s artifact
when a breezy summer bee
sneaks to land upon a naked arm

its dinky stinger spears my elbow
as I sit silent for a bit nonplussed
by this apparent harm,
then squelch a wince and yelp
as hurt enters me unawares,
"Oh shit I'm taken by surprise attack!"

I’m disarmed by the day
of course and her warmly soft
green eyes
(but just this once I think)
as I pinch and squeeze my skin
to take the thin blade out.

Later as we stroll along the park’s
inviting Sunday path
I tell her of the music from a far-off
Summer by the rocking band
whose name I love to say
whether immersed in
swollen squawking pain
or honeyed grinning pleasure,

whose music attacked and coaxed
the hidden teenage soul,
burrowed deep to bring forth real
feeling as it rocked and rolled:

‘BEE BUMBLE AND THE STINGERS’.

BODY OF LIGHT

The desire body
a holy vessel

a loam tucked
bulb with
scent of dew.

As Spring growth
fights to green
and nestle

and clear streams
float stone hills
to sea,

this early morning
before sun’s fire,

I awakened
in light,
was born anew.

Mid-wifed by
my bed
my silence

stepping forth
onto home’s
soft earth

I sing
of summer
sand
time’s sweet
sad passage,
kayaks gliding
on oceans blue,

and how we
each belong
to this one
hearted
boldly hopeful
serene ram/
bunctious,

rather strange
spirited
crew.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

In The Ring

Jack Dempsey a thick ox
in silk shorts
turns deftly to whack
Gene Tunney the boxer
smack side his head,

bruised, battered and shaken
he spins then topples
leaden on taut canvas
like a short ton of bricks

in an earthquake of rage
and destruction
Richter explodes
its known scale
into double digits

and the titans trade swats
in sweat, salt, and swelter
while fans smoke and wail
scream gossip and fidget,

some go home satisfied,
forget for tonight
their own lost dreams
sad rusty failings.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Suddenly Sounded One Summer

('Let the soft animal of your body love what it loves'--Mary Oliver)

the morning sings
without words
in a low musky voice
as tiny birds stiffen
to listen
begin their beak
quaking shiver

slick silver aeroplanes
soar and soak
in this cloud- cloaked
music,
shining hot
like fever
freely given

and the wind--
a crazy woman
in a red flouncy
skirt
starts to dance
ravish and flirt
across leg
skin
and feather

all awaken
to dawn’s song
shake wide alert
to open within
proud shimmering quivers
of beautiful tones

the beat pulses and pushes
its unscripted sound,
penetrates through
great and small both,

forever frenzied
inside and around

in such magical buzz
and grand tuneful
seductive resound

gratefully we bow
to this unmild
wild weather!

EARLY, ONE SUMMER

('Let the soft animal of your body love what it loves'--Mary Oliver)

the morning sings
without words
in a low musky voice
as tiny birds stiffen
to listen
begin their shiver

slick silver aeroplanes
soar and soak
in this cloud- cloaked
music,
shining like fever
freely given

and the wind--
a crazy woman
in a red flouncy
skirt
starts to dance
and flirt
across leg
skin
and feather

all awaken
to dawn’s song
shake alert
to open within
shimmering
proud quivers
of beautiful tones

the beat pulses and pushes
its unscripted sound
through great and small,
frenzied forever
inside and around

in such magical buzz
and grand tuneful
seductive resound

thankfully we bow
to this wild
wild weather!