Rogue Poets Fight Thought Police

The true rogue poet

can’t help

being a thought criminal

in their own home.

Each slight

just makes the flame

burn brighter.

There is no death

by a thousand cuts

when each blow

makes the poems longer.

Real rogue poets

can bear any storm

and it only

makes them stronger. 

Hymnal of the Somber 6 Train

like machines

set to go and go

we drone through

these cramped quarters

only to travel some more

precision decisions

to shave precious seconds

from wasting away

we bleed time

into transit hell

more and more each day

the hustle and scrape

for survival pay

we soldier on

burning to do more

and be free of this

daily war

haunts us as we live it

and hunger for more

these dues we pay

and pay again

a thousand faces

press us close

and none of them a friend

Drive Explosion Ego Implosion

hitting pavement

rolling thunder

inviting rain, pain

and highway chimes

following whims

and the faded

roadside signs

letting it all unfold:

prime America

open road

blaring loud

in rabid gasps

begging us to

live again

in garrulous blasts

roughhousing

our own way

years upon years

beauty and glorious

without time

for tears

Winter Night

the sweet bite

of a hard wind

alerts a certain kind

made strong

with a sharp

winter’s mind

pace the cold streets

unbending

feeding glorious

waking dreams

unending

let us be

unbound warriors

burning for the night

made immortal

with the star-glazed

machinery of might

Burned Out Firing Up

stunned sad

by my own reflection

caught among the commuter herd

going from bed to desk to death

mindspace cluttered 

with petty matters

paid to pretend to care

somewhere lost 

buried by the worry-lined face

is the slap-happy poet

who lived for twilight wine

and laughed 

under pink

sunset skies

rage in the transit cage

but vow

somehow

to find this person

again

Il Toscano

The Douglaston rabble

is old and loud;

they shout at the waiter

by name.

The heat flushes us;

we stay stoic and proud.

We look the part,

but can’t act the same.

We pay our bill,

savor the coffee

and the fact

we have souls.

We draw our power

from the star-splattered night;

we soar above these petty lords

and their reign over dinner chairs.

We dip

our coffee spoons

in the soft flank

of the ice cream.

Tip well

and glide through

the dining rooms

and away;

running headstrong

into the winter night

and greater magic

to come.

Quest for Cold

Bring us that air of steel,

the punching breeze

that makes us real.

Thrive in crystal bold

blankets of white

that let us draw from the cold

to give us might.

Let us have the joy

of breath like ice

a little longer.

Give us the season

that makes us stronger.

News of the World

Fireworks crack wise

over Southern skies

the Georgia pine stay silent

as the New Year

promises to conquer fear

with a birth

in a burst of violence.

The chill night sky

makes us sweet promises

of dark ventures

if we only take them.

The blue night commands

that we not follow legends

but make them.

Spread the news:

We’re barreling through,

upsetting pretenders

and electrifying

you. 

At the Campbell Apartment

an old safe

in a faux fireplace

prays mutely

for greater purpose;

the guests

don’t think about

its great secrets

or former treasures

as they swirl their wine

chatter echoes on,

words falling

uncounted

on the dusky walls

minutia of business,

hollow words

stream endlessly,

keeping us from

going home

to real life

and our better selves

Seamless Cycle of Affirmative Madness

On track,

new life born

in rampant mind songs

mouthed out

like silent Rosary

at the chaotic streets

On point,

bringing new love

to lonely wanderers

who see beauty

in every calf and cobblestone

and weep

On time,

for all of time,

that light

that flash of knowledge

sending every sultry sinner

singing in crazed demonic joy

sparking new life

for those new needy souls

Happy Quotidian Murder Story

one small step

can snuff  a whole day

cast a dark pall

every which way

churn with nervous burn

while stomach butterflies

struggle to keep pace

whiff of death air

permeates everywhere

when sufficed to stay

at one’s own station

it’s the glory of breakage

the carnage of liberation

that makes the most

of life’s celebration

Civilization of the Waffle House

not some sickly trough

where America slouches to binge

but an island of civility

amid a nation unhinged

a respite from the lunacy

the vitriol and spite

avert our eyes from the crumbling land

the fast approaching night

our pulse, barometer, shelter, guide

a safe hospitality

and a great place to hide

friendly to a fault

that shames a jaded traveler

breaking fast our only task 

a vacation from disaster

From Mohonk Mountain House

somehow at peace

in these mountains

as cold bites at every turn

sweeping views

to dare the cold

while drawing heat

from our own dark flames

tempting ghosts

with every turn

down quiet halls

plotting

our own worlds

among the chattering diners

braving chill barns

to marvel at glorious history

carved out hard rock

Hurricane Dreams

spinning silent

like a strange carnival scene

upturned chaos

with a center calm and free

fleshed out,

flashed before jaded eyes

that let the clumsy jumble

erase past lives

silent awe

for the power

of dark times,

wiser men

see the value

of colder climes

vow to the twisting force,

the darkening doom

and the mystery it shrouds

and be snug

with our superior dreams

within the violent clouds

The Workday Stray Way

Some way

that always loves a walk;

that spark of will

that lets us step away,

and nobly salvage

a scrap of our day

Gathering purpose

with every stride,

our covert rebellion

a source of pride.

Living for the journey;

For these moments are fleeting.

The fire stays alive

when the soul takes a beating. 

Viking Diaper Skills

day worn and battle weary

returning from the fight after dark

even tantrums and night soil

is a hearty welcome home

life messes

a blessed test

to slay and bleed

and be the best

the line in the sand

the blood, iron and land

you can’t save your people

without conquering

the mini van

mastering each day anew

to be the stoic, strong and few 

Battleships of Union Street

aglow in the night

and early morn

blaze of light rumbling by

flushed with bustling humanity

vessel for the warrior poets

out to scrap for daily bread,

home for those

touched by the mark

with dreams dancing dark

in their troubled heads

roving land ships

loaded with joy pirates

teeming with mind crime galley slaves

soldiers in the hand-to-mouth

soulgrinding slow motion suicide

and poison pen samurai

ready for the best defense

somewhere shuffling home

is our tragic poetic overlord

looking for his children

and planning 

the next artistic holy war

Engine

the promise of future fire

in the night-ripe sky

burns its mark

on our slumber

the pull

to be that knowing passenger

feeling the alien hum

and know the power

unleashed

to throw the dice

and risk your neck,

the cusp and taste

            of death

lets you truly live

Clarion Call of the Solstice Saints

laughter

to cut through

curls of sweet smoke

all-day wine glasses

stand sentry

to convening

of old friends

sultry spring night

as Earth turns to slumber

and

we burn

our candles

on both ends

blazing nightlife

glorious

with maniacal laughter

cascading

in knowing cackles

until morning comes

to say good-bye

A Warrior’s Walk

spilled out

in small groups

by smaller people

cuck-men chuckle

like pecked hens

dabble in the drunken sweet-talk

of teen girls

the lone warrior

puts on his hat,

walks

the chill Hell’s Kitchen streets

in the sober quest

for home 

Young Pirates of Flushing, Queens

young pirates

of Flushing, Queens

shout about treasures

they pull from their jeans

taste floor hors d’oeuvres

before mother can clean

but even at their worst

we’re living the dream

the pirates

of Queens

have promises to keep

they punctuate their orders

by stomping

their small feet

our joy ambition

is molding these girls

into warrior women

who conquer the world

Stagger Swagger Speed and Saw

sharp eyes

among the bleary-eyed pack

awake enough

to dream of attack

lone wolf

blends in with the crowd

springs to the hunt

to turn life around

not waiting

for divine refusal

the taking of prey

is its own approval

Alien Elite

No need to let

the freak flag fly;

the deadliest of men

stride by in bow ties.

Ladies replete

with bared skin and ink,

lethal beauty

that drives men to drink.

No fearful tales

cloud our minds,

no lies to sow misery

can bind our kind.

Hands too busy doing

to clasp in prayer.

Don’t promise us Heaven;

we’ve made ours here.

Sailing the Blacktop Seas

up anchor

sailing asphalt oceans

to battle

succubus mind pirates

claiming our stake, inheritance

in the art of madness,

the beauty

of the burning drive

that turns the ruined

into noble saints

let us sink the ships

flying false flags

and leave treasure

on the salty shores

of dreamers 

Public Relations

Everything is a sale

and every day

another act.

A week is a work

eyeing marks

like a carny.

Smile and shake

hoping intermission

will hold

while we hawk

more tickets

on the street.

Dream again

a proper

freak show life

somewhere

far away

from hating

what we do.  

North Queens

The quiet streets of Whitestone

keep calling me their way,

bidding me to trod alone

to the outlands

of College Point.

And ghosts

of long-ago movie starts

draw us

to feel the breeze

of Little Neck Bay

and skip stones

from the shady woods

of Crocheron Park.

We dip into some alien feast

with our worked hands

at all hours,

as the night life

of a thousand people

babbles around us

and the dreams of millions

chatter by.

Steerage

crowd-hobbled

rain-slicked platforms

where we scrum

for a place

among the two-legged livestock

bristling angry

pointless

like a neutered gamecock

careless spill of languages

and faces

the same misery

among the mad races

broken down and delayed

resigned to this misery

for the hardened underpaid

cheek by jowl
make our own way

and say a silent vow

of “Someday…”

All Night Driving

Smooth blacktop sailing

before light

cracks the horizon line,

soaring

like a swift boat captain

searching for ivory

or Vietcong

dreams of lobster rolls

and keeping children asleep

no time to stop

or think, or weep.

One week

without work stress

our steady paycheck souldeath.

Scrambling to get there

before commuters clog

the highway arteries.

Loving the brakespeed chaos

and the promise of coffee

and salty air

with leadfoot magic

to get us there.

Las Vegas on a Business Trip

Our neon Gomorrah

carved out of drought and sand,

abundant with sweat and makeup,

a craven blight upon the land.

Stinging with eye smoke

and loneliness,

crumpled souls

beg with quiet faces

for something better,

something real. 

Pregnant Irish Women Will Rule the Earth

The Irish ass

is always

primed for kissing

Cross an Irish woman

and leave

with teeth missing.

On those cold potions

I take a polite pass

but muster devotion

for the fiery Irish lass.

Mane of red

and swelled with child

they are maddening, mine

and bloody wild. 

Wedding After Party

a last pocket of survivors

in a quiet world

we lift our glasses,

toast the happy couple

3 a.m. on empty roads

that glisten and smell like spring

traffic lights click away

and do their color dance

for random strangers

we stagger and sway

chatter for the newlyweds

having their wedding night

a friend throws money

into our new used truck

to bring us children

and a bit of luck

we climb in

and drive

to the next adventure

From the Hudson Line

Chatty girls

run dialogue

through the miles

—puke stories

and mistaken texts,

who is where

and Spanish wraps.

Trackside

the mounds of rubble

are overgrown,

ghosts of labor

years ago,

dreams and hard work

now unknown.

Grind of history

merciless still,

but we power through

with power and will.

Willis Cemetery

The cemetery

carved out of the White Mountains

has room for more

who are strong enough

to stay

Hopeful sightings of youth

among the hard old timers:

rays of light

between the shuttered homes.

Here our nation

still lives.

Here the spirits

of old settlers

make our sleek city lives

look small.

At Kerouac’s Grave

surrounded by death

and crumbling Lowell

but we’re ready

to embrace it all

to love America

like the mad poets

of ti Jean’s dreams

we shake our white-knuckle fists

at the frowning gawkers

at the indifferent universe

at the cold stars

from our smoldering Earth

we laugh again

refueled in our crazed minds

ready to live harder

and burn in ethereal magic light

across the face of the world

Irish Women

starlight beauty

drawn to kiss lightly

over every freckle

glowing face,

smile a shining emerald

of lost lands

smooth strong arms

shaped

to carry babies and muskets

eyes alight

with the power

of sweat-drenched promises

and closed for a kiss

that can keep it all going

another thousand years

L.I.E. at 4:32 a.m.

bleary blinking

with van-heavy brakefoot

cargo sliding to and fro

shiny road

swooshing underneath

streaked

in reflector rainlight

passed out passengers

swaying to the beat

of cruising speed

dodging the reckless trucks

panic-flushed

by invisible lane lines

casting out signals

as the cold traffic

keeps whizzing by

First Trip to Las Vegas

America’s largeness

in lights

ethereal magic

and topless dreams

blazing machines

penny slot siren maze

eyes glazed

for days

pit upon pit

—trimmed greens

for your cash—

bill-breaking towers

in faux gold

a tiny taste

for young and old

stamped upon the thirsty land

oasis of illusive plenty

advance and decline

in one gleaming gift

cheering on

our own great blazing burnout

one bet at a time

Revenge of the Blue Light

In the lush green

dream night,

bruised and stained

by the sweet chase,

we get to that

mysterious place,

that Daisy’s pier

in heavenly space

to find the blue light

is only a ghost,

a glimpse of dying star,

a sinister dream,

parasite

to our host.

We shake our fist at this, unfair,

ignoring the starry night,

the cooling air.

Burning with anger,

but we have no case,

trying to weave paradise

from a shallow place. 

Alley Walk

strange light

from spring rain twilight

guiding odd characters

seeking refuge from the sun

spreading ethereal glow

across quiet rooftops,

and empty street corners

where wood-tar telephone poles

stand silent sentry

this light

brings the muses

to Earth,

it dances away

before we can give it voice

inspiring, torturing

the youthful heart

that burns to spark life

from all of it 

Rocky Neck

art plied honestly

in sweat and heat

hard wrought

beside the sun-kissed lobstermen

waving gracefully

to rough locals

and soft tourists

where joyous newlyweds

sketch their own future

panel by panel

muck deep

in tiny horseshoe crabs

scrambling in low tide pools

away from baby girls

where dogs swim

beside the private beaches

and the rich sands

are slick

with stubborn seaweed carpets

let’s be worthy of this place,

may we have the good sense

to live lives

as beautiful as this

At Forest Hills

feel the ghost rain

on the early evening

carried

on the bleacher seat breeze

secret smokes

—a one-hitter pulled from a bra

private celebrations

thousands of times over

as each chord

strikes its own symphony

May we age gracefully

with fire and noise.

May we all breathe in

the blue sultry night

and feast on May twilight

until we die. 

Breeze Damage

much more trouble

than tussled hair

or the dust void

on the floor

from what’s missing there

an uprooted mudline

is this purgatory’s border

a ruined life’s chaos

keeps its own

kind of order

there’s no engineer

to blame,

no liable claim

moneyed salvation

is the flip side of nature,

and a zero-sum game

those forces that

greened the grass

and churned the sea

gladly unglued it all

for you and me

we’ll watch it

powerlessly

and let it be

Nightburst

a random burst

like a powder cloud

ignited mid air

flowers its fire

in the Queens night

people file out

onto the heated summer streets

among the blazing

night lights

and screaming sirens

silhouettes hum

in their beautiful New York Babel

among the firemen

laden with gear

and bored police

not happy to be here

under watch

of darkened windows

we soak in

the rain-touched

New York night

Memories of Beer

a hot numbness

of happiness, wet

and sends us

to that sweet deadly zone

            that craves the next

            and the next again

release that makes carefree

but wary the supply may dry

living for the comfort cocoon,

for the lullaby music

of the crack of can

or the vacuum kiss

of the frost-smoke bottle

remembering to be slave

to that cold kiss,

gateway 

to an uncertain heaven

On the Peter Pan Bus

Peter Pan tosses us,

an early Friday escape

from the choking rush hour

Peter Pan implores, begs us

to claw our current selves

away

and be children again

but we decline,

eyeing sideways

the awkward smattering

of humanity

slicing down the American highway

in these two, too-slow hours.

Bring us, save us

oh Tower of Babel on wheels!

Somewhere among our cramped ranks

is a warrior poet

hurtling head-first

into glory.

Winter in Queens

in warren dens

of clutter

dust mist

swirls a dance

as needle winds

scream past

draughty windows

burrowed

above the hard streets

where America gets molded

one rough day at a time

the rough clay

drawn from hard lots

crafted

over patched blacktop

and spotted sidewalks

scramble down

teeming streets

stop-go, packed-hell

commute

lets us daydream

our way

to destiny

Camden, Maine

quilted sky

glittering silently,

winking a thousand times

to the iron visitors

constellation

of houses

are sentries

to the cooing loons

and grunting bullfrogs

by day

the sun-kissed bodies

drift by

in casual boats,

soaking in the trees

and the sea-salt air

harbor chatter

in vacation tongue,

tolerant locals

measure patience

one tourist at a time

Blizzard

the joy of snow

is to burrow deep

hearth fire blaze

inviting sleep

layer up

burst out

get bitten by the cold

freeze out cabin fever

with the ways of old

a heist of snow

frost-kissed faces

to blaze new memories

in familiar places

Double Winter Anger Freeze

an angry glaze

on the outside world:

frost under foot,

hard ice hiding slickly,

snow air punches faces

crooked footprints

steals and preserves

our vulnerable moments

we can enjoy this

only when locked inside

our lives endlessly

tear and churn

the real world

will watch us

freeze and burn

Call of the Woods

leaf-lush primal joy,

a magnet,

drawing woodmen

from their galley desks

step

by wide-eyed

step

forest bound

and snug,

wound tight

but natural

in tree cloak

all still

in the magic

of the first light

the world

as we were meant

to see it—

waking, alive,

and ripe

for the taking