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

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.

At Forest Hills

feel the ghost rain

on the early evening

carried

on the bleacher seat breeze

secret smokes

—a one-hitter pulled from a bra

private celebrations

thousands of times over

as each chord

strikes its own symphony

May we age gracefully

with fire and noise.

May we all breathe in

the blue sultry night

and feast on May twilight

until we die. 

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

Winter in Queens

in warren dens

of clutter

dust mist

swirls a dance

as needle winds

scream past

draughty windows

burrowed

above the hard streets

where America gets molded

one rough day at a time

the rough clay

drawn from hard lots

crafted

over patched blacktop

and spotted sidewalks

scramble down

teeming streets

stop-go, packed-hell

commute

lets us daydream

our way

to destiny

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.