Sunday, December 14, 2014


Silent inviting
a place of bounty
fleeting, springing
with creatures alighting

puzzles of trees
branches and streams
woods of Indian walking dreams

pace in the cold
upwind and still;
waiting for prey
ignoring the chill

there to take
with a hunter’s violence,
a thirst to slake
with hours of silence

Sunday, October 19, 2014


like bison
that once roamed the plains
the skels are few now

their quaky eyes
no match
for the faster world
moving past them

they will always be with us
shoved into an ashen corner
of our cities
astride that shifty half-step
towards death

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

The Accidental Teabagging (An Inspirational Summer Mishap)

            Oscar Begnet (pronounced ben-YAY, his father was half French Canadian) was relaxing at home in his house clothes, which during these hot summer months were a simple pair of loose cotton shorts and a thin cotton t-shirt.
            It was important to try to keep cool during these times and let as much skin breath as possible. His mother taught him that and abided by this advice, bringing many visitors among his many friends growing up during summer vacation.
            So be it. Oscar was decently dressed and helping his wife with their baby boy this day. They would go to the park and sit in the shade, just as soon as today’s reading lesson was over. They were reading to their son, Aaron Cullen Heart-Begnet, for at least two hours each day, calculated to one hour each at least. His wife Clarissa explained that it was important for them to both share all these tasks, essential for Aaron’s healthy development.
            It was the height of the afternoon and Clarissa had just finished breastfeeding Aaron while doing a yoga pose. She had read how this was good for her posture, sense of inner balance and milk production.
            “I need to rest now,” Clarissa said, laying down on the living room couch. “Try to read to Aaron and make sure the cat doesn’t bother him.”
            “When should I wake you up?” Oscar asked.
            “Don’t,” was his wife’s answer. She was soon asleep. Baby Aaron was on a play mat in the center of their living room with some toys. He was in the habit of crawling around among the toys, tossing one away, and then continuing on. Sometimes he would shake the toy, sometimes he would try to put it in his mouth.
            Oscar cast a wary eye on his wife’s sleeping figure and then noticed that Cyrus, their cat, was near the edge of the play mat.
            Aaron soon flung one of his toys, a collection of teething aids made to resemble a set of keys, over to within a paw’s swipe of the cat.
            Worried the cat would take hold of it, Oscar stepped forward and bent down to retrieve the toy. As he got his hand on the toy, he felt a soft warm sensation on his testicles.
            Oscar was so focused on making sure he reached the baby toy before it became a cat toy that he didn’t realize what was happening right away. He was a few inches from getting the wayward toy when the full reality hit him and, toy in hand, he lifted himself up as high as his strained legs would take him, but not before he felt Aaron’s curious baby hand reaching to see what this warm item was on his head.
            Oscar realized that he had just teabagged baby Aaron, who continued to play on his mat as if nothing was awry.

Clarissa began to snore loudly. Oscar approached his wife, readying himself for a new purpose.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

On the Way to the Work Event

I am armed
to the teeth
with psychic defense.

I will face-melt away
all the bristling
and tense
and use firefly poetry
to billow my cerebral tent.

I’ll puff
my predator
terror colors
like a menacing
to chase away
Philistine gnats
in well-tailored suits.

Let our minds eyes
with lethal
blue lightning.
Let no one
cross our
poetic trenches.

And we will
forge victory
after victory
seeping righteous
artistry and beauty
into the bloodlines
of future generations.

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Zarathustra of the Pen

Last night
I wrote myself a hero.
My pen
dropped forty pounds from my body,
re-grew the hair on my head.

I wrote myself
a stunning Irish girlfriend
and fat bank account;
artistic friends
and a mercenary’s history.

My sloppy penmanship
did little to diminish my power
as Imam of Chinatown,
Grand-Poobah of the Masons,
Patriarch of Violent Fiction, and
Samurai of Ozone Park.

So much better than the poor soul
who fell asleep on the A-Train,
a hopeful dreamer there
to take my place-
alone, out of money,
a dead ringer for the poet.

Saturday, January 11, 2014

The Greatest Borough

Clacking upwards to the
Elevated station
Commuting through the glory of working Queens
The Engine of an ungrateful city
The workhorse by choice
And sleeping giant

Screaming steaming vents
In the empty yards where dogs stand bent,
Stacks of cannibalized cars
Jumbled together in wayward piles
Swayed stacks no longer aligned
Disobeying the orders of
Modern times

Proud of our dirty cousin borough,
With heaps of car parts
Near where the starts dine
At the gleaming grassy field.
With a million carved out spaces
For the legion of weary faces

Coming home again to Queens