Long Beach Island

sun-brown men

jest from baking rooftops,

women with salt-touched caves

wander the sweaty streets

houses larger than dreams

reach soft powder beaches

and ocean, infinite ocean

—in a straight line,

you’ll reach Portugal

tanned sentries

guard the sands,

eye dolphins in the distance

from the crossed hustle

to the mocking ghost town

after season

the waves roar

their clarion call

to giant dreams

and stars make new friends

with a knowing wink

Rockport at Night

another youth climbs the tree

this one a barefoot girl

—the cop chased away a boy

as a teenage girl

sings, sings at piano

for a small crowd

people take it upon themselves

to light the paper lanterns

that glow our way through the breezy night

the dark beckons everyone

to the beaches

lawn chairs jockey for space

to spy the fireworks

Lobster Fest has wound down,

dusk shrouds the folded tables and chairs

as visitors mingle and float away

praying they come back

Distant Lightning

a shock-white message

flashes soundless

in the distance

beauty electric

powered abundant

sears through softness

without burning

and brands

in our mind’s eye

the promise

of enormity and legend

pigment

for soul survival,

divine jump-start for art

fused from

primal power

that binds

even the most modern

to the ways

of the caves

sit in the dark

and watch the coming storm

let it draw strength

and blaze endlessly

delight in seeing it

char off

the soft false shell

to let truth in beauty be reborn

Literature for You: Supernova Black Hole Butthole

Supernova Black Hole Butthole is now published. I am still new at the Amazon publishing game. I would like it if there were an option for people who buy things from Amazon’s kindle store to get them in printed book form as well, even if that means a smaller payout to the author.

But that doesn’t matter, because I have more fiction for sale on Amazon, out there and ready for the world to see, for a small fee.

This story was the first one I read at the Cash Prize Literary Open Mic at The Cobra Club in Brooklyn earlier this year. I didn’t win the prize at that open mic but the story was very well received and someone asked me after the reading if this was available online for purchase anywhere. Now it is.

So enjoy and thank the very talented Justin Melkmann for his awesome illustration. 

Impostor

They can see it

in the way I walk,

in the way I wear my tie.

They can tell

by the way I talk to the waiter,

in that I talk to the waiter at all.

The clothes don’t fool them.

I’m not one of them.

I stay my course

and get through my day

anyway,

go through the motions

and collect my pay.

They have no way to know

that I’m a secret poetry agent,

a reluctant punk rock dervish

and pied piper

to the righteous underground,

that I enlighten darkly

with a cold fist of truth

through scribbled secret lines

scratched out on the way

to fancy lunches. 

Dance Party of One

Subway dervish

dancing for his own soul

fueled by a tiny smoke

and his own valiant mind.

Commuters ignore him,

another part of city scenery

to avoid.

Chinese residents hustle by,

a few financial men

see him,

contemplate this merger

of joy and madness.

He spins and jives,

a one-man setback

old and broken of mind.

The body spins and dances

on and on,

keeping a flame alive

that was long ago forgotten.

Let it flicker still somewhere

while we go about our busy days.

Deerwoods

Silent inviting

a place of bounty

fleeting, springing

with creatures alighting

puzzles of trees

branches and streams

woods of Indian walking dreams

pace in the cold

upwind and still;

waiting for prey

ignoring the chill

there to take

with a hunter’s violence,

a thirst to slake

with hours of silence

Skels

like bison

that once roamed the plains

the skels are few now

their quaky eyes

no match

for the faster world

moving past them

they will always be with us

shoved into an ashen corner

of our cities

astride that shifty half-step

towards death

The Accidental Teabagging (An Inspirational Summer Mishap)

            Oscar Begnet (pronounced ben-YAY, his father was half French Canadian) was relaxing at home in his house clothes, which during these hot summer months were a simple pair of loose cotton shorts and a thin cotton t-shirt.

            It was important to try to keep cool during these times and let as much skin breath as possible. His mother taught him that and abided by this advice, bringing many visitors among his many friends growing up during summer vacation.

            So be it. Oscar was decently dressed and helping his wife with their baby boy this day. They would go to the park and sit in the shade, just as soon as today’s reading lesson was over. They were reading to their son, Aaron Cullen Heart-Begnet, for at least two hours each day, calculated to one hour each at least. His wife Clarissa explained that it was important for them to both share all these tasks, essential for Aaron’s healthy development.

            It was the height of the afternoon and Clarissa had just finished breastfeeding Aaron while doing a yoga pose. She had read how this was good for her posture, sense of inner balance and milk production.

            “I need to rest now,” Clarissa said, laying down on the living room couch. “Try to read to Aaron and make sure the cat doesn’t bother him.”

            “When should I wake you up?” Oscar asked.

            “Don’t,” was his wife’s answer. She was soon asleep. Baby Aaron was on a play mat in the center of their living room with some toys. He was in the habit of crawling around among the toys, tossing one away, and then continuing on. Sometimes he would shake the toy, sometimes he would try to put it in his mouth.

            Oscar cast a wary eye on his wife’s sleeping figure and then noticed that Cyrus, their cat, was near the edge of the play mat.

            Aaron soon flung one of his toys, a collection of teething aids made to resemble a set of keys, over to within a paw’s swipe of the cat.

            Worried the cat would take hold of it, Oscar stepped forward and bent down to retrieve the toy. As he got his hand on the toy, he felt a soft warm sensation on his testicles.

            Oscar was so focused on making sure he reached the baby toy before it became a cat toy that he didn’t realize what was happening right away. He was a few inches from getting the wayward toy when the full reality hit him and, toy in hand, he lifted himself up as high as his strained legs would take him, but not before he felt Aaron’s curious baby hand reaching to see what this warm item was on his head.

            Oscar realized that he had just teabagged baby Aaron, who continued to play on his mat as if nothing was awry.

Clarissa began to snore loudly. Oscar approached his wife, readying himself for a new purpose.

On the Way to the Work Event

I am armed

to the teeth

with psychic defense.

I will face-melt away

all the bristling

and tense

and use firefly poetry

to billow my cerebral tent.

I’ll puff

my predator

terror colors

like a menacing

bullfrog

to chase away

Philistine gnats

in well-tailored suits.

Let our minds eyes

strike

with lethal

blue lightning.

Let no one

cross our

poetic trenches.

And we will

forge victory

after victory

seeping righteous

artistry and beauty

into the bloodlines

of future generations.

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.

The Greatest Borough

Clacking upwards to the

Elevated station

Commuting through the glory of working Queens

The Engine of an ungrateful city

The workhorse by choice

And sleeping giant

Screaming steaming vents

In the empty yards where dogs stand bent,

Stacks of cannibalized cars

Jumbled together in wayward piles

Swayed stacks no longer aligned

Disobeying the orders of

Modern times

Proud of our dirty cousin borough,

With heaps of car parts

Near where the starts dine

At the gleaming grassy field.

With a million carved out spaces

For the legion of weary faces

Coming home again to Queens

Call of the Woodsmen

Leaf-lush

primal joy,

a magnet

drawing woodsmen

step by wide-eyed step.

Forrest bound

and snug,

wound tight

but somehow natural

in tree-cloaked garb.

and still

in the magic

of the first light

the world

as we were meant to see it:

waking,

alive

without the glare

of a cruel sun,

autumnal

and ripe for the taking. 

Point Lobos

Like an exotic woman

Flashing plumage

For a mate she’ll never take

The coast is beauty, unforgiving.

Indifferent to the good children

Marveling at the starfish

In the bristling tidal pools,

Mocking its own beauty

Choked thick with seaweed.

Wave after wave cascade

A gorgeous wall of glassy blue

Thrashing like a fist

Heartless foam on sharp sand

Lurking undersea

The currents keep the seals away

Hills stuffed with scruff of trees

No traction sliprock hike to speak

As birds gawk from faraway stones.

Squint into the wind

At the fleeting phantom unseen otter

But can’t tell the dolphins

From the weeds.