Snowman

 

Stone cold proof
for the need of creation,
silent sentinel
of something sacred,
birthed by clumsy young hands.
 
Rising triumphant,
totem of the season’s mischief,
destined to melt
into the blooming Spring.
 
Made human
with patchwork features,
almonds and bruised carrot end face,
soggy stick limbs claim victory
over freeze anonymity.
 
Never again another snow pile
but a life,
fleeting like ours,
destined for the storm drain
or brown grass,
and leaving us with its joy.

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

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

Fairy Lights of Flushing

a holiday every day

this corner of our Gotham

we pray it to stay

unhip

a little longer

where the news

is churned by machine

and stacked wet on trucks

to stain fingers

and shape minds

where motorcycles hide

stacked between trailers

and a cacophony of cars

the salty perfume of the bay

filled with planes and prisoners

and left behind

to bode adventure

is the lonely highway side

far from the tudor homes

the chaos Korean 2 a.m. barbecue

living in the sweet rush

of passing cars

everyone hurtling

toward some odd piece

of their dreams

How to Keep Time

like a starter pistol

shot up close

breakneck lessons

at the speed

of bumpy hayrides

pumpkin patch

rollicking

in fast-jostle motion

counted

with giggles

and stolen snapshots

one day at a time

up to bedtime

in joyous bedlam

reeling

pulling in memories

like a fighting ocean fish

gorging souls

in a cosmic fish fry

to the light

of fireflies

as children laugh

out in the dusky light

Invisible Flame of Misfit Workers

sublime

if we can creep

past the wear-down

rage

past thoughts

too hateful

to darken a page

past misery heedless

near needless

for pay

past the clock-worn

routines

we repeat every day

somewhere

some spark

flints away

in the dark

with plans

nearly hatched

for some progress

to mark

this waking dream

of guiding flame

powers us through

a poisoned mind frame

it is our own darkness

ourselves

that we fight

in the hellfire struggle

to create

our own light

Rebellion of the Cluttered Mind Warp

submission grows slowly

without time to think

numbed with the circus

our gossip

and drink

rancid workthink

bleeds into leisure time

these precious hours

somehow no longer mine

and thus

the chase for daily bread

cascades the worry

in a dreamer’s head

but lo and behold

with such lust to lash out

and take hold of that lightening

to bring real life about

Rogue Poets Fight Thought Police

The true rogue poet

can’t help

being a thought criminal

in their own home.

Each slight

just makes the flame

burn brighter.

There is no death

by a thousand cuts

when each blow

makes the poems longer.

Real rogue poets

can bear any storm

and it only

makes them stronger. 

Seamless Cycle of Affirmative Madness

On track,

new life born

in rampant mind songs

mouthed out

like silent Rosary

at the chaotic streets

On point,

bringing new love

to lonely wanderers

who see beauty

in every calf and cobblestone

and weep

On time,

for all of time,

that light

that flash of knowledge

sending every sultry sinner

singing in crazed demonic joy

sparking new life

for those new needy souls

Distant Lightning

a shock-white message

flashes soundless

in the distance

beauty electric

powered abundant

sears through softness

without burning

and brands

in our mind’s eye

the promise

of enormity and legend

pigment

for soul survival,

divine jump-start for art

fused from

primal power

that binds

even the most modern

to the ways

of the caves

sit in the dark

and watch the coming storm

let it draw strength

and blaze endlessly

delight in seeing it

char off

the soft false shell

to let truth in beauty be reborn

On the Way to the Work Event

I am armed

to the teeth

with psychic defense.

I will face-melt away

all the bristling

and tense

and use firefly poetry

to billow my cerebral tent.

I’ll puff

my predator

terror colors

like a menacing

bullfrog

to chase away

Philistine gnats

in well-tailored suits.

Let our minds eyes

strike

with lethal

blue lightning.

Let no one

cross our

poetic trenches.

And we will

forge victory

after victory

seeping righteous

artistry and beauty

into the bloodlines

of future generations.

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.