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

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

The Gospel of Swords

Blessed are the clear-eyed,

the keepers of swords,

by their bold blood

our lives are forged.

Lift our hammers

and our spears;

leave plowshare angels

their slavery

and tears.

Rejoice the future,

present and past.

As we make our history.

the die is cast.

Weeknight in Hell’s Kitchen

Down the dark avenues

where footsteps fall off of crowded curbs

to scuttle past the slow flesh night life,

the neon punctuates

roiling twighlight.

The pastel dusk

is our emperor,

ordering us to sweet sin

that tastes better

with the ghosts of old crimes.

Let us lapse

into madness

drunk on laughter

with old friends.

Let this all

fall out of favor

so these streets

will be our secret

again.

Winter Thrives

let it pain us to the bones

the wind like splinters

that fires the soul

solid strength

piling higher than snow

savor the chilled air

the frost breath

that finds you there

to chase the skies

to fight, to dare

the hard, the cold

is winter’s great flower

breathe it deep

to gather power

Kisses for the Whale

empty box rowboat

in the living room

sets sail

orders from the captains:

kisses for the whale

sharp-eyed daughter

in thrall with her game

a glimpse of immortality

on the strength of our name

jumping and playing

no riches can compete

blood of our blood

makes a life complete

the news comes down:

there’s trouble in the skies

no worries from the captains

the ship is doing fine

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.

Gotham Guide Stones

grandeur and gutter

in two short streets

consuming sights

indifferent

to the time

we try to keep

glittering glass

on sidewalk and sky

wearing a stone mask

but searching

every face that passes by

armies of strangers

spin their dances

like demons possessed

angry undercover poets

blind

to how they are blessed

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.