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

Zarathustra of the Pen

Last night

I wrote myself a hero.

My pen

dropped forty pounds from my body,

re-grew the hair on my head.

I wrote myself

a stunning Irish girlfriend

and fat bank account;

artistic friends

and a mercenary’s history.

My sloppy penmanship

did little to diminish my power

as Imam of Chinatown,

Grand-Poobah of the Masons,

Patriarch of Violent Fiction, and

Samurai of Ozone Park.

So much better than the poor soul

who fell asleep on the A-Train,

a hopeful dreamer there

to take my place-

alone, out of money,

a dead ringer for the poet.