Times Square At Night

 

good in small doses;
a rose
to decades gone,  
everywhere still a hustle
but now more staged
than uncaged
 
pastel pixels
light the stage
where a thousand characters
ply their trade
as police horses
clack past
 
a pause
to be a tourist
in our own city,
to bask in the false light
and gawk at the nightlife
 
we snap a photo,
a million souls
anonymous, yet immortalized
in an instant

Night drive

 

red moon presides
over a harvest-cold sky,
a right light
for the night drivers
 
fortress trucks
scream speed
from behind their running lights,
knowing they will never
run out of road
 
and the car drivers,
gunning hard to steam past,
rejoice in the easy swoosh
of smooth blacktop,
the lull of the radio,
and the sweet nirvana
of just going

Ocean Thunder

a call to arms

in the crash cascades

through the salty air

and among the moving clouds,

streaking across the horizon sky

the siren song

of night

drawing us to sharp moonlight

that dances across the dark ripples,

that pastes our shadow to the cool sand

this music is endless,

sacred like a Gregorian chant

with never the same note

cleansing despite the sand everywhere,

a dream-forging cauldron of strength

a roiling punch

to knock us down

when we need it

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

Father’s Day at the Carnival

a tinkering sun glints sharply

from spinning rides,

small feet scamper

on dry grass

through laughter and chaos

to an unhinged carousel

with a wink

from the leathered carney

clasping sweaty little hands

to thunder past

the shady barkers,

hurtling headlong

into years

of everyday madness

and new adventure

of whatever comes next 

Righteous Fires in the American Mind

Our land,

born from multitudes

of blood,

cannot slip peacefully

into old age.

Like these fireworks,

we flare brilliantly,

a shining white hot light

for all to see,

violent,

ending in charred carnage.

History is our loving scold:

Independence is the love of danger

and the thrill of the hunt.

Let us make kindling of our fears.

Let us rattle the slumbering minds

with our fire at the ready

and our gunpowder dry.

If our end is in madness,

it will be righteous and strange.

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.

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

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 

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. 

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

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

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

Back Roads

the ways we go

will jumble and make no sense

and we’ll yearn

for smooth boulevards

to preen the dream engines

we don’t have time to shine

some of us

can’t avoid back roads

walled with trees

and spiked with odd life

our destination is always

out there, somewhere

just one more turn away