Clarion Call of the Solstice Saints

laughter

to cut through

curls of sweet smoke

all-day wine glasses

stand sentry

to convening

of old friends

sultry spring night

as Earth turns to slumber

and

we burn

our candles

on both ends

blazing nightlife

glorious

with maniacal laughter

cascading

in knowing cackles

until morning comes

to say good-bye

A Warrior’s Walk

spilled out

in small groups

by smaller people

cuck-men chuckle

like pecked hens

dabble in the drunken sweet-talk

of teen girls

the lone warrior

puts on his hat,

walks

the chill Hell’s Kitchen streets

in the sober quest

for home 

Young Pirates of Flushing, Queens

young pirates

of Flushing, Queens

shout about treasures

they pull from their jeans

taste floor hors d’oeuvres

before mother can clean

but even at their worst

we’re living the dream

the pirates

of Queens

have promises to keep

they punctuate their orders

by stomping

their small feet

our joy ambition

is molding these girls

into warrior women

who conquer the world

Stagger Swagger Speed and Saw

sharp eyes

among the bleary-eyed pack

awake enough

to dream of attack

lone wolf

blends in with the crowd

springs to the hunt

to turn life around

not waiting

for divine refusal

the taking of prey

is its own approval

Alien Elite

No need to let

the freak flag fly;

the deadliest of men

stride by in bow ties.

Ladies replete

with bared skin and ink,

lethal beauty

that drives men to drink.

No fearful tales

cloud our minds,

no lies to sow misery

can bind our kind.

Hands too busy doing

to clasp in prayer.

Don’t promise us Heaven;

we’ve made ours here.

Sailing the Blacktop Seas

up anchor

sailing asphalt oceans

to battle

succubus mind pirates

claiming our stake, inheritance

in the art of madness,

the beauty

of the burning drive

that turns the ruined

into noble saints

let us sink the ships

flying false flags

and leave treasure

on the salty shores

of dreamers 

Public Relations

Everything is a sale

and every day

another act.

A week is a work

eyeing marks

like a carny.

Smile and shake

hoping intermission

will hold

while we hawk

more tickets

on the street.

Dream again

a proper

freak show life

somewhere

far away

from hating

what we do.  

North Queens

The quiet streets of Whitestone

keep calling me their way,

bidding me to trod alone

to the outlands

of College Point.

And ghosts

of long-ago movie starts

draw us

to feel the breeze

of Little Neck Bay

and skip stones

from the shady woods

of Crocheron Park.

We dip into some alien feast

with our worked hands

at all hours,

as the night life

of a thousand people

babbles around us

and the dreams of millions

chatter by.

Steerage

crowd-hobbled

rain-slicked platforms

where we scrum

for a place

among the two-legged livestock

bristling angry

pointless

like a neutered gamecock

careless spill of languages

and faces

the same misery

among the mad races

broken down and delayed

resigned to this misery

for the hardened underpaid

cheek by jowl
make our own way

and say a silent vow

of “Someday…”

All Night Driving

Smooth blacktop sailing

before light

cracks the horizon line,

soaring

like a swift boat captain

searching for ivory

or Vietcong

dreams of lobster rolls

and keeping children asleep

no time to stop

or think, or weep.

One week

without work stress

our steady paycheck souldeath.

Scrambling to get there

before commuters clog

the highway arteries.

Loving the brakespeed chaos

and the promise of coffee

and salty air

with leadfoot magic

to get us there.

Las Vegas on a Business Trip

Our neon Gomorrah

carved out of drought and sand,

abundant with sweat and makeup,

a craven blight upon the land.

Stinging with eye smoke

and loneliness,

crumpled souls

beg with quiet faces

for something better,

something real. 

Pregnant Irish Women Will Rule the Earth

The Irish ass

is always

primed for kissing

Cross an Irish woman

and leave

with teeth missing.

On those cold potions

I take a polite pass

but muster devotion

for the fiery Irish lass.

Mane of red

and swelled with child

they are maddening, mine

and bloody wild. 

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

From the Hudson Line

Chatty girls

run dialogue

through the miles

—puke stories

and mistaken texts,

who is where

and Spanish wraps.

Trackside

the mounds of rubble

are overgrown,

ghosts of labor

years ago,

dreams and hard work

now unknown.

Grind of history

merciless still,

but we power through

with power and will.