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

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

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

Hell’s Kitchen Express

bring us West

where hard blossoms grow

where moss

knows how to map the bodies

in old brick

bring us West

where pink sky fire

chases us

down paving stone streets

where a chosen few

are wise enough

to seek their peace

bring us West

where outlaw ghosts

still prowl,

where dreamers still stoop

to pick up change

and share a bottle

with strangers

Walt Whitman’s Ghost on the Q34 Bus

He stalks our dark canyons

by firelight

casting star-shadows

on the rain-slicked streets

Rejoicing

at the church of life

at our chaotic march

led by endless, sacred dreams

He lets it all

flow around him,

such joy among the throngs

that fed him long ago

Packed to the gills,

steaming the windows

with breath

from every corner of Earth

so many mysteries, lives

intersecting in this beast

Walt Whitman,

your Holy Ghost

rolls on

even here,

an overcrowded bus

on the ass end of Queens

You dance on the fingers

of old maids, immigrant children

and harried drivers.

You keep us hopeful

when humanity fails us, again.

You are here,

in every strange swirl of humanity,

in every passing glance at forbidden fruit.

Your ghost sustains us, reminds us

that there is joy to be unearthed

like gemstone treasure,

even here.

Transit Banshee Night Song

all night

disembodies voices

echo

in florescent-stained night

repeated

like a mantra:

Q44 bus…Jamaica… to the Bronx Zoo

rote monotone

encapsulating dreams,

soundtrack

to a future hero’s story

we slumber through

this siren song,

part of the ambient Gotham song

that lulls us to sleep;

we dream

in Viking runes

and ceremony fire,

savoring

what the waking city

will bring us

tomorrow

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

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

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

August Night

the music played

a sweaty, drunken romp;

a random gathering

on forgotten benches

as cabs careened

up 6^th Avenue

kissing to the white noise

that was Friday night’s anarchy,

the Village sang for us

and sent us on our way

Gotham Guide Stones

grandeur and gutter

in two short streets

consuming sights

indifferent

to the time

we try to keep

glittering glass

on sidewalk and sky

wearing a stone mask

but searching

every face that passes by

armies of strangers

spin their dances

like demons possessed

angry undercover poets

blind

to how they are blessed

Hymnal of the Somber 6 Train

like machines

set to go and go

we drone through

these cramped quarters

only to travel some more

precision decisions

to shave precious seconds

from wasting away

we bleed time

into transit hell

more and more each day

the hustle and scrape

for survival pay

we soldier on

burning to do more

and be free of this

daily war

haunts us as we live it

and hunger for more

these dues we pay

and pay again

a thousand faces

press us close

and none of them a friend

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.

Nightburst

a random burst

like a powder cloud

ignited mid air

flowers its fire

in the Queens night

people file out

onto the heated summer streets

among the blazing

night lights

and screaming sirens

silhouettes hum

in their beautiful New York Babel

among the firemen

laden with gear

and bored police

not happy to be here

under watch

of darkened windows

we soak in

the rain-touched

New York night

Double Winter Anger Freeze

an angry glaze

on the outside world:

frost under foot,

hard ice hiding slickly,

snow air punches faces

crooked footprints

steals and preserves

our vulnerable moments

we can enjoy this

only when locked inside

our lives endlessly

tear and churn

the real world

will watch us

freeze and burn

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.

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

Flushing, Queens

Dazzle-bright signs

In alien characters

Light the way

For fleets of buses

Burping diesel

On the teeming sidewalks

Storefronts

Paved over Quaker farmland

Odd monuments linger

For a sacred past

The streets break way

For brick buildings

And green lawns,

Rows of houses

That remember simpler times

Sidle past

The looping language

Of churches

Where once were family homes

We take it all in,

Souls sizzling like all-night barbecue.