December Night in New York

Still glows

with blue-black embers
smolders its whiplash twilight
 
sidewalks are a slush minefield
poorly navigated
in the chaos of the
unofficial winter night
 
the glow of joy is all around—
some plastic,
some triumphant hubris,
and we forge our own
North Stars
and assemble them
for decorations
 
we journey
through these throngs
like wise men
we will never be,
to welcome the birth
of unseen miracles
in our sparkling city

Snow Language

 

The salt spackle splatter
of plow truck dialect
 
marks our caravan,
frost-hardened
from the industrial grime
of the cold
 
this underworld of harsh
allows our cozy fireplaces,
our gingerbread
 
the cruel season
also powers the firebrand sunset,
gives rest and time for comfort,
readies the earth for blooming
 
but first
 
delivers the pain
to make us stronger
with the sting of chapped skin
and brown dim
of night-sky afternoons
 
let this freeze
press us into its service
as we rush headlong into our winters
grinding through hard truths
and ready for Spring.

At the After Work Event

standing in the back of the room
away from the buzz of networking
the chit chat and side glances
judging if I am worth talking to

here in theory
to meet people like me
but don’t see any
that are dreaming of poetry
and fire eating,
or worried about Nazis on the moon

spy a woman in black boots
and dream we elope
and leave this reception, this life
behind

sputter some more zombie work talk
drained glass, wet napkin in hand

leave as early as I can,
and savor the cold walk
alone

The Stalking Moon

 

the heavenly body of record
lest you forget
crushes petty complaint
beneath its rocky seas
and pulls the tides
to cool work-weary feet
 
the stalking moon
sees you home
knowing twinkle in the sky
 
it lets you know
in the worst of sorrow
that there is still
another tomorrow

Times Square At Night

 

good in small doses;
a rose
to decades gone,  
everywhere still a hustle
but now more staged
than uncaged
 
pastel pixels
light the stage
where a thousand characters
ply their trade
as police horses
clack past
 
a pause
to be a tourist
in our own city,
to bask in the false light
and gawk at the nightlife
 
we snap a photo,
a million souls
anonymous, yet immortalized
in an instant

Night drive

 

red moon presides
over a harvest-cold sky,
a right light
for the night drivers
 
fortress trucks
scream speed
from behind their running lights,
knowing they will never
run out of road
 
and the car drivers,
gunning hard to steam past,
rejoice in the easy swoosh
of smooth blacktop,
the lull of the radio,
and the sweet nirvana
of just going

Rogue Avenging Hockey Dad

 

Double-fisted hand holding
through dark Newark streets
for a women’s hockey game
 
strong girls
growing stronger
in the burgeoning stands
to be ice-cool
and sharp as blades
 
beyond the stadium horns
and the flash and lights,
crying from pure exhaustion
 
Dad’s pocket money depleted
evaporated like so much cotton candy
 
worth every blood-earned penny
to escape the cultural poison
and raise
warrior women

King Monster Undercover

 

freedom
is being alive
like mental fluoride
 
bold and sharp
quiet
like a razor rock
 
action remedy
secret medicine
the balm of the doing
saving souls
one day at a time
 
let it burn on
infinitely
in flesh and poetry

The Gates of Bellevue

 

sad derelicts
add a somber note
to the skyscraper shadows
obtuse in their stillness
among the city-bustle chorus:
the traffic, the youth on their way to excitement
deliveries and commutes in droves
 
the old gates stand guard
behind a bus stop now
vying for attention
among the gaudy glass
and the traffic islands
 
but old New York
lives here still
for those that know,
and who wander far from work
to gaze upon the green bronze
and dream of what terror
once dwelt here

Ocean Thunder

a call to arms

in the crash cascades

through the salty air

and among the moving clouds,

streaking across the horizon sky

the siren song

of night

drawing us to sharp moonlight

that dances across the dark ripples,

that pastes our shadow to the cool sand

this music is endless,

sacred like a Gregorian chant

with never the same note

cleansing despite the sand everywhere,

a dream-forging cauldron of strength

a roiling punch

to knock us down

when we need it

Rockville, Maryland

This night

is too still

even for a corporate park,

squat hotel

among slapped-together homes

The ground

holds secrets

of times past,

musket balls and tomahawks,

relics

of pioneers and war.

Brick facsimile

stands sentry now,

faux elegance

tacked on to a green Earth

screaming to be free.

The Sinequa ghosts

shake their bloody heads

at our lives,

ticked away in board rooms

with catered lunches

eyes glazed

simple slaves

to numbers on a screen.

  

Escape notes

staying stoic

among the caterwauls,

the legions of false faces,

the theatrics – like trained animals we jump

 for hard-earned pay

let others plunder their wayward souls;

we’ll form a secret resistance,

paint glitter onto bank notes

as we plot our escapes

we’ll leave them to it,

be cleansed by sun and shade

and accept hunger

as pay

for the better world we’ve made

Regal powers of the living room floor

my throne

is cereal-strewn carpet

my subjects

are building blocks

for a supersandwich

piled giggling

upon one another

after saving our world

I reign

in final judgement

of sharing

while minding the choking hazards

I am Dragon King

and riding workhorse

conquering fear,

hauling my sacred blood kin

for tickles and napping

this brood makes me stronger

though I drag my feet

and fall asleep

before my appointed hour

Le Grenoullie

taking a seat

among unspoken elite

interloping by accident

among the fine silver,

a sliver of the ancients

alive in the modern world

we try to look the part

but are the worker-bee poets

among the gilded, idle minds

wealth indeed

like a bill fold

rotting

inside wet clothes

we chatter about France,

our travels

and scattered,

melting-pot lives;

shake hands to do our business

and vow

to dine there again