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

Proud Prayer of the Infidels

faithful

in dismissing these myths

embracing the appeal

of the sting of rough earth,

the carnal, the real

proud to be

that blast of cold air

to bring chaos

to the god sellers

and give chase

with that cold mind,

the blue chill

of cold white reason

so feared

and so great

Subway Strangers

conversation snippets

patter like precipitation

this heat, that rain

what job, which station

desperate souls

and lonely trolls

railing needlessly

as we roll

castaways

among millions

clinging to the pole

all of us awkwardly

spying

for a friendly face

among these crowds

too sad, too lonely

but not too proud

By the Guiding Light of the Ozone Sky

on a city street

like a secret rendezvous

the velvet sky

calls to us,

its glow

as its calling card

and victory sign

for us alone

we will overcome

profane existence

and be that speed healer,

the secrecy dealer, soldier

and saver of savaged souls,

the harbinger of doom

for doubt,

assassin

of false virtue

and all else

that poisons dreams

we pledge

before this dawn sky

to be life’s avenger,

the reckoning to come,

to redeem the mad nomads

and beaten down dreamers

forever

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

Poetic Secret Soul Patrol

pastel skies preside

over the migration

through the dusty-dusk streets

a few spare souls

pace the same sidewalks

in a different zone,

seeing the life of everything

auto-gauging at every turn

they tap our hive-buzz

for answers and power

hear and see it all

in mad, bounteous cascade

the Corlear’s Hookers

plying their trade

the scattershot art

the homeless made

the ghostly cat calls

of time zones past

the sonic rat messages

telegraphed

at half mast

the daytime drinkers

in the hoppy-dark bars

and the yearning teenagers

squinting for stars

in the angelic language

of pigeon wings

under cross-examination

of the setting sun

we all tread home

to brighter dreams

and the day is won

Time-ripe Ninja Commuter Disguise

the time-ripe ninja

stealth assassin

sent to dispatch

legions of false faces

makes her way

through the metropolis

shrouded in the skin

of the slouched commuter

on the train

cold

to the homeless man

seeking alms in vain

all the while

in stolen moments

scribbling the puzzle pieces

to let loose

the hounds of greatness

they march triumphant

clenched jaws trailing blood

into immortality

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

Madison & Vine

the literary life

is cast in bronze

on the sidewalks

of our great city

for the dead

the living sweat it out

feet to the pavement

scrapping day by day

with albatross dreams

and stolen lunches

then stumble

on the crutches

of park strolls

breathing in

life’s poetry

before spilling it

imperfectly (always)

back on the pilfered page

Night at the Carnival

shoveling fried food

into my mouth

while surveying

the passers by

 —a young parade

of summer delight

to test the men

of Friday night—

but such is this disguise,

ourselves unwell

but artfully wise

and somewhere

dark beneath

a silent warrior’s

sword unsheathed

showing no mercy

the verse unleashed 

For the Werewolves

I sweat each day

To earn my hide

To burn off this shell

And reveal the wolf inside

By work and desire

Embrace trial by fire

And make ourselves worthy

Of the life of blood and iron

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

Mud Soup

churning churlish

under canopy of trees

at the quiet park

summer streets simmer

while temptint rain

the only Dad here

hiding under a sweaty hat

trying not to gawk

at the fit mom

breastfeeding

and the cool dirt

speaks to me

when the girls pile it

to build their castle

we endure all shapes

of absurdities

to give our blood kin

an edge,

grateful we no longer

have to kill for it

the girls

make their quiet father

mud soup

I pretend to sip it

—delicious—

as I wait

to unleash their ambition

upon the world