Walt Whitman’s Ghost on the Q34 Bus

He stalks our dark canyons

by firelight

casting star-shadows

on the rain-slicked streets

Rejoicing

at the church of life

at our chaotic march

led by endless, sacred dreams

He lets it all

flow around him,

such joy among the throngs

that fed him long ago

Packed to the gills,

steaming the windows

with breath

from every corner of Earth

so many mysteries, lives

intersecting in this beast

Walt Whitman,

your Holy Ghost

rolls on

even here,

an overcrowded bus

on the ass end of Queens

You dance on the fingers

of old maids, immigrant children

and harried drivers.

You keep us hopeful

when humanity fails us, again.

You are here,

in every strange swirl of humanity,

in every passing glance at forbidden fruit.

Your ghost sustains us, reminds us

that there is joy to be unearthed

like gemstone treasure,

even here.

Transit Banshee Night Song

all night

disembodies voices

echo

in florescent-stained night

repeated

like a mantra:

Q44 bus…Jamaica… to the Bronx Zoo

rote monotone

encapsulating dreams,

soundtrack

to a future hero’s story

we slumber through

this siren song,

part of the ambient Gotham song

that lulls us to sleep;

we dream

in Viking runes

and ceremony fire,

savoring

what the waking city

will bring us

tomorrow

Couch Song Armory

We have our own song

for when the whole family

fits on the couch

a glad song

carves memory

forges mental ammunition

and bulletproof souls

to last

in the savage lands

beyond our living room

so here

among our cluttered life

we run a musical boot camp

for the woman soldiers

of tomorrow

Weary Bleary Fog-Eyed Burn

at some point

we betray ourselves

at work

the way our eyes

glaze over

at meetings

or how the inner fire

shines through

when talk turns

to the outside world

pleased and relieved

to be the outliers,

the tired dogs

that can do the harder work

without pretending

cloaked

in solitude

to dream

of better things

Day Adventuring

day adventuring

is driving, moving

to keep moving,

staring at rusted rebar

prodding wrought fingers

out of New Deal concrete

kissed by aquamarine

it is

reigning

over dead end streets

or quiet parks

where ducks wade

out of reach,

feeding sun-touched turtles

for their boldness

adventure is somehow

snatching solitude

like urchins steal bread

and pray

to the hedonist war gods

that we do not hang for it all

A Climbing Rock

A father’s job

is a climbing rock

to be that rough path

that winds to the top

to rule with love 

to tempt the fates

to put muscle on bones

and food on plates

hewn from

ancient tectonic madness

to guide through scrapes

and be a salve for sadness

unending

unbending and deep

to protect, defend

and lull to sleep

Early Fireworks

spied over

illicit rooftop visit

shining for miles

blasting holy glitter

on cloudy night

and muddy waters

glowing from the bridges

and the old towers

these mercantile dreams

made real with gunpowder

centuries still

Let this magic

never fade

from our red-blooded veins;

let us always retain

this rough-trade explosive crazy

that somehow,

against all odds

keeps us free.

Americans Setting Fires

our blazes now

signal only faded glory

facades of parchment

paper over

our revolution story

the few of us remaining

that have a faith to keep

grip our pistols tight

and set ablaze

this sickly barn of sheep

Los Angeles at Night

the palm trees

stand sentry

and whisper

bloody secrets

in their own language,

dark tongues

swishing sultry gibberish

with their shadows

starry-eyed young

infuse our air

with chiming dreams

thick in the lurid haze

we make our way to cars,

to move forward, onward,

riled by the possibility

of night

and the searing heat

of tomorrow

The Truth of First Light

the pull of sleep

loses its hold

when the dawn

first light offers

to burn off the cold

the sweet dew chill

little sought

but for the take

a just reward

for being awake

catching the sky

blue for the right eyes

to set our hopeful gaze

and have adventure

before the heated haze

like the hunter

who sacrificed the night

this is the moment

arrived with first light

A Cold Forest Lament

the woods play tricks

and leave the weary

to walk home aching,

tiring with each step,

mired in a vulture’s quiet

boundary and man breaker,

jester and solemn teacher,

the land reflects

the mind of the hunter:

sometimes mad,

but always hungry

Shadow Zen of the Misfit Drones

better to stay a secret

in our own universe

riding hobo rails

or trout fishing across time

dodging train yard cops

and Kodiak bears

being free to fail

or be devoured

in the wild

or overdose

on lollygagging poetry

and ecumenical oddity

such a better end

than succumb

to those

landlocked sharks

that chew away our time

branded

in sterile horror

we’ll show them our masks

—a wink and a nod—

and turn back to the real work

of salvaging our own souls

Victory of the Walkabout Tribe

A time to gaze

To let the mind graze

Walk to an anthem

Heard only by you

To watch dreams being dreamed

And to dream your own too

With future rejoicings

Overheard from within

The Walkabout Tribe

Will make you their kin

Through flush summer heat

Or steel-winter cold

These starry-eyed dreamers

Shall never grow old

How to Keep Time

like a starter pistol

shot up close

breakneck lessons

at the speed

of bumpy hayrides

pumpkin patch

rollicking

in fast-jostle motion

counted

with giggles

and stolen snapshots

one day at a time

up to bedtime

in joyous bedlam

reeling

pulling in memories

like a fighting ocean fish

gorging souls

in a cosmic fish fry

to the light

of fireflies

as children laugh

out in the dusky light

Coffee Run

alone

on a workday hooky walk

away from the stifling desk

out and about

breathing in

the rambling New York stew

a plastic bucket drummer

fills a park

with magic beats

French-speaking tourists

shuffle by

on shoe-sore feet

spy the people

plodding on

drink in the sight of them

and then

move along

bank these visions

for later

for day dreaming

on stalled subway trains

modest joy

in the lonely life

again

Mad Life Fever Check

Lone wolf squad of one

preying

in the slumber of the sun

raging daughters

with more fight than sleep

tiptoe through the darkness

in a mad poet’s creep

our night becomes morning

as we feed on the blue light

joyful

with the rest of the world

out of sight

right in our minds

with wild dreaming fever

our job

to drive mad

and be our dreams’ keepers

Covert Poets of the Cubicle Empire

Covert poets of the cubicle empire

hearts aglow with soulful wildfire

stealing seconds and minutes

to keep themselves sane

amid the mind-melting workday

that gets in the way.

Secret scribbles

and sketchers of dreams

ride the blue night

sewn up in memory’s seams

We mouth the right words

our uniforms stay

but our souls still sour

in the true poets’ way

Our secrets are kept

within some kind of trust

as most of the bosses

wish they were us

At the Tinkergarten Class

love

that boils down

to the pure enough

eyeing the girls

scooping mud

in headlong innocent greatness

among the clatter

and the chatter

of the catty city mothers

lone wolf father

proud among the pack

as his girls

school the other children

rule the roost

unafraid

hands deep in the ground

to let the cool Earth

bathe our good anger

content, for now

to not destroy this world

Dance of the Frozen Devils

the good marrow

can be ice and snow

as we clutch hands

and brace

against the windy cold

the warmth inside

feels better

with a thawing face

only after such blustery violence

do we find our place

drinking it all in deeply

the close comfort

leaves us sleepy

but we spark again

alive at the freezing source

to dance with fellow devils

joyous

as life runs its course