King Monster Undercover

 

freedom
is being alive
like mental fluoride
 
bold and sharp
quiet
like a razor rock
 
action remedy
secret medicine
the balm of the doing
saving souls
one day at a time
 
let it burn on
infinitely
in flesh and poetry

Le Grenoullie

taking a seat

among unspoken elite

interloping by accident

among the fine silver,

a sliver of the ancients

alive in the modern world

we try to look the part

but are the worker-bee poets

among the gilded, idle minds

wealth indeed

like a bill fold

rotting

inside wet clothes

we chatter about France,

our travels

and scattered,

melting-pot lives;

shake hands to do our business

and vow

to dine there again

Hell’s Kitchen Express

bring us West

where hard blossoms grow

where moss

knows how to map the bodies

in old brick

bring us West

where pink sky fire

chases us

down paving stone streets

where a chosen few

are wise enough

to seek their peace

bring us West

where outlaw ghosts

still prowl,

where dreamers still stoop

to pick up change

and share a bottle

with strangers

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

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

Poetic Secret Soul Patrol

pastel skies preside

over the migration

through the dusty-dusk streets

a few spare souls

pace the same sidewalks

in a different zone,

seeing the life of everything

auto-gauging at every turn

they tap our hive-buzz

for answers and power

hear and see it all

in mad, bounteous cascade

the Corlear’s Hookers

plying their trade

the scattershot art

the homeless made

the ghostly cat calls

of time zones past

the sonic rat messages

telegraphed

at half mast

the daytime drinkers

in the hoppy-dark bars

and the yearning teenagers

squinting for stars

in the angelic language

of pigeon wings

under cross-examination

of the setting sun

we all tread home

to brighter dreams

and the day is won

Kings at the Half King

surly adversaries

after hardly a pint

proud of our heady resolve

and might

making our plans

over soggy-soft coasters

the loud happy babble

of still-youthful boasters

let decades slip past

and revisit these scenes

as hardscrabble years

claim the hardest of dreams

true resolve doesn’t die

but grinds away

and lives on

as the quest will consume us

in our own haggard song

Cosmic Dragons Loose in the Business World

There were cosmic dragons

dancing around me

at my office.

They praised me

for drinking coffee

and daydreaming.

The eyes of the other staff

were on me

when I tried converse

with these dragons.

They apologized

for their aloofness

but I accept this

as a sacred burden.

They motioned

to guide me away

but I remain

at my desk,

writing poetry

and devising

grand plans

that might please them.

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

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

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

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. 

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

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

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. 

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.

Happy Envy

I raise a toast to success

and clink Champaign

with a hate-frozen gaze

blue eyes green inside,

burning a shameful burn

that I pray won’t bleed through my smile

I must eclipse you,

beat you

into my shadow,

feed you

the leftover bits of fame

or hitch myself

to an earthbound comet,

streaking angry stardust lightening

across the blue-black sky

before burning away