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

War Letter from a Long Summer

the hard heat

adds to the thrill

of being alive

stalking scorched streets

with cold-minded eyes

hardened

in the kiln

of too many voices

being that exception,

that warrior poet

standing alone,

is enough

to make us smile

in the blaze

of the hateful sun

Invisible Flame of Misfit Workers

sublime

if we can creep

past the wear-down

rage

past thoughts

too hateful

to darken a page

past misery heedless

near needless

for pay

past the clock-worn

routines

we repeat every day

somewhere

some spark

flints away

in the dark

with plans

nearly hatched

for some progress

to mark

this waking dream

of guiding flame

powers us through

a poisoned mind frame

it is our own darkness

ourselves

that we fight

in the hellfire struggle

to create

our own light

Drummer in Madison Square Park

tapping

to an endless dialogue

to no one at all

spattered

with brilliant rolls

percussion concussion

to make the doldrums die

walking the park to mark

the tail end of summer

joy in the sunshine

as the city

hustles

one stolen afternoon

at a time