Saturday, June 24, 2017

Lone Wolf in Manhattan

stop to realize
I have become
a walking relic,
a tie-wearing man
in an open-collar world

where eunuchs grow beards
and women lean in
when they should stand

where savages
are taken for scholars
and beauty and art
is measured in dollars

but I smile widely
as I spot the sharp eyes
of my growing tribe
and refuse
to live a lie

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Simmering Summer Song

baked in a flush rage
the bright heat
pounding fists
from above and below
blast-furnace breeze
finds us
even among the trees

in plain sight
a sun-glass spy
avoiding the light
a self-styled wolf
stalking prey
that always gets away

we know our roles
as sun-touched souls
holding the line
until North winds
have their time

Saturday, June 3, 2017

August Night

the music played
a sweaty, drunken romp;
a random gathering
on forgotten benches
as cabs careened
up 6th Avenue

kissing to the white noise
that was Friday night’s anarchy,
the Village sang for us
and sent us on our way

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Lunch Walk

Less time than a prison yard
but more
to put under gaze.
We seek to be invisible,
into the summer haze.

Work piles up
while we breath fresh air
for our only fun.
Let the scene to be seen
turn and blister
in the sun.

Wear eight hats
and pulled
every which way.
We let work eat up
too much of our day.
we’ll go on our lunch walk
to stay.   

Saturday, May 20, 2017

Song of the Hooves

Soundly uplifting
to be the workhorse,
to charge unbroken,
scarred by thorny brush.

Make earthly tremors
a calling card.
Let armchair emperors
taste blood and dust.

Let very course
be a thunderous plain,
let every harness
lay broken beneath. 

Saturday, May 13, 2017

Bounce University

an upward swing
from every down-pressed time
every fracture of spirit
every dying sign

basic joy of motion
as we laugh among the screams
primal, carnal joy commotion
powers scattered tribal dreams

jumping high
and shoeless
as if making pagan prayer
smiling and remorseless
as we immolate with flair

Saturday, May 6, 2017

Bleary Epiphany

spy the clock to find
the hours burned by fast
distraction waves
like knowing knaves
bringing head-slump slumber
at the desk

the quiet dark
is false calm
a rude pause
to the world’s rage
churning somewhere

but the blue night
filled with child of dawn
sparks the need
to fly awake
and burn brighter than magnesium sun
while the rest of the world