The Stalking Moon

 

the heavenly body of record
lest you forget
crushes petty complaint
beneath its rocky seas
and pulls the tides
to cool work-weary feet
 
the stalking moon
sees you home
knowing twinkle in the sky
 
it lets you know
in the worst of sorrow
that there is still
another tomorrow

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

Fairy Lights of Flushing

a holiday every day

this corner of our Gotham

we pray it to stay

unhip

a little longer

where the news

is churned by machine

and stacked wet on trucks

to stain fingers

and shape minds

where motorcycles hide

stacked between trailers

and a cacophony of cars

the salty perfume of the bay

filled with planes and prisoners

and left behind

to bode adventure

is the lonely highway side

far from the tudor homes

the chaos Korean 2 a.m. barbecue

living in the sweet rush

of passing cars

everyone hurtling

toward some odd piece

of their dreams

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

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.

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

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

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

Nightlight Over Long Beach Island

our devices

glow like fireflies

and the night sky

pays no mind

it steers the ocean

to pound these shores

not knowing we’re alive

there is no magic formula

waiting to be revealed

no untapped powers

to absorb

only beauty

to let all heal

the secret

is to enjoy this sight,

to let this glory

be your light

so stop searching

for your soul to feed

this truth through beauty

is all you need

Ode to the Time Stalkers

our secret way

to glimpse the world

cocooned in our own zone

fearless, anonymous, and alone

steal these precious minutes

from the workday masters

rambling soundless odes

to sooth frustrated souls

stalk this fleeting heaven

of a jazz-touched park

like a secret agent

at a drop

mind reeling

at the deft machinery

of life

its well-oiled gears

laid bare

just in time

to meet our retreat

on well-heeled feet

past the fumes and noise

with all manner

of proper corporate poise

we, sun-starved lunatics

of our own design

forever tethered

and counting time

Chicken Bucket Brigade

this rowdy assemblage

like bleacher creatures of old

serves to warm our hearts

out in the rain and cold

the chants, the jokes,

the joy of being here

our tribes trump cheap talk

fueled by beer

our colors are proud

and we know where we stand

singing our songs loud

across the fractured land

the chicken bucket

is a fairly good deal

amid this bogus playground

our spirits stay real

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 

Grit City Sunset

still at heart

this is a gritty city

sweated out

on packed

train cars

where our petty travails

are mocked

by pastel majesty

of sunset

the red-pink

skyblood of pride

slashed across the westward sky,

a reward

for myriad dreamers

cobbling new lives

one hard day at a time,

ready to bare

their threadbare souls

to strangers

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.

Song of the Hooves

Soundly uplifting

to be the workhorse,

to charge unbroken,

scarred by thorny brush.

Make earthly tremors

a calling card.

Let armchair emperors

taste blood and dust.

Let very course

be a thunderous plain,

let every harness

lay broken beneath. 

Bleary Epiphany

spy the clock to find

the hours burned by fast

distraction waves

abound

like knowing knaves

bringing head-slump slumber

at the desk

the quiet dark

is false calm

a rude pause

to the world’s rage

churning somewhere

always

but the blue night

filled with child of dawn

sparks the need

to fly awake

and burn brighter than magnesium sun

while the rest of the world

slumbers

Lightning Bolt

a pulse of power

forged from sky,

a black flame candle,

a rallying cry

the might,

the knowledge

amidst the dark;

the light reveals

and burns its mark

Warrior at the Bulk Discount Club

some solitude

amid the bustling shoppers,

rain-spattered, unshaven,

somehow proud

cart-pusher

cubicle sharecropper

weaving past

old and young,

dodging evidence

of decline

to get the provisioning

done

focused

like a beast of prey,

bringing the kill home

to start the day

Rebellion of the Cluttered Mind Warp

submission grows slowly

without time to think

numbed with the circus

our gossip

and drink

rancid workthink

bleeds into leisure time

these precious hours

somehow no longer mine

and thus

the chase for daily bread

cascades the worry

in a dreamer’s head

but lo and behold

with such lust to lash out

and take hold of that lightening

to bring real life about

February Spring

disjointed sun,

breezy strolls

where should be

lashing cold,

something broken

on an axis

rusted and old

false joy,

a gift poisoned

with a bad whiff

of heat damage

time slides forward,

a broken ride

swinging heavily

to an abrupt end

we keep our eyes sharp

to find

pockets of shade

to build our fortress