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

First Spring Day of Winter

flush-faced

in a winter coat

awkwardly cloaked

among the joyful strollers

ready for the rains,

the torrent streams

to build again

and make green

calendars and numbers

tell stale tales

while the sky

maps a better afternoon

dreaming in real time

of new, verdant days

ahead

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

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

Couch Song Armory

We have our own song

for when the whole family

fits on the couch

a glad song

carves memory

forges mental ammunition

and bulletproof souls

to last

in the savage lands

beyond our living room

so here

among our cluttered life

we run a musical boot camp

for the woman soldiers

of tomorrow

Early Fireworks

spied over

illicit rooftop visit

shining for miles

blasting holy glitter

on cloudy night

and muddy waters

glowing from the bridges

and the old towers

these mercantile dreams

made real with gunpowder

centuries still

Let this magic

never fade

from our red-blooded veins;

let us always retain

this rough-trade explosive crazy

that somehow,

against all odds

keeps us free.

Los Angeles at Night

the palm trees

stand sentry

and whisper

bloody secrets

in their own language,

dark tongues

swishing sultry gibberish

with their shadows

starry-eyed young

infuse our air

with chiming dreams

thick in the lurid haze

we make our way to cars,

to move forward, onward,

riled by the possibility

of night

and the searing heat

of tomorrow

Victory of the Walkabout Tribe

A time to gaze

To let the mind graze

Walk to an anthem

Heard only by you

To watch dreams being dreamed

And to dream your own too

With future rejoicings

Overheard from within

The Walkabout Tribe

Will make you their kin

Through flush summer heat

Or steel-winter cold

These starry-eyed dreamers

Shall never grow old

Mad Life Fever Check

Lone wolf squad of one

preying

in the slumber of the sun

raging daughters

with more fight than sleep

tiptoe through the darkness

in a mad poet’s creep

our night becomes morning

as we feed on the blue light

joyful

with the rest of the world

out of sight

right in our minds

with wild dreaming fever

our job

to drive mad

and be our dreams’ keepers

Madison & Vine

the literary life

is cast in bronze

on the sidewalks

of our great city

for the dead

the living sweat it out

feet to the pavement

scrapping day by day

with albatross dreams

and stolen lunches

then stumble

on the crutches

of park strolls

breathing in

life’s poetry

before spilling it

imperfectly (always)

back on the pilfered page

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

Burned Out Firing Up

stunned sad

by my own reflection

caught among the commuter herd

going from bed to desk to death

mindspace cluttered 

with petty matters

paid to pretend to care

somewhere lost 

buried by the worry-lined face

is the slap-happy poet

who lived for twilight wine

and laughed 

under pink

sunset skies

rage in the transit cage

but vow

somehow

to find this person

again

News of the World

Fireworks crack wise

over Southern skies

the Georgia pine stay silent

as the New Year

promises to conquer fear

with a birth

in a burst of violence.

The chill night sky

makes us sweet promises

of dark ventures

if we only take them.

The blue night commands

that we not follow legends

but make them.

Spread the news:

We’re barreling through,

upsetting pretenders

and electrifying

you. 

Hurricane Dreams

spinning silent

like a strange carnival scene

upturned chaos

with a center calm and free

fleshed out,

flashed before jaded eyes

that let the clumsy jumble

erase past lives

silent awe

for the power

of dark times,

wiser men

see the value

of colder climes

vow to the twisting force,

the darkening doom

and the mystery it shrouds

and be snug

with our superior dreams

within the violent clouds

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.

First Trip to Las Vegas

America’s largeness

in lights

ethereal magic

and topless dreams

blazing machines

penny slot siren maze

eyes glazed

for days

pit upon pit

—trimmed greens

for your cash—

bill-breaking towers

in faux gold

a tiny taste

for young and old

stamped upon the thirsty land

oasis of illusive plenty

advance and decline

in one gleaming gift

cheering on

our own great blazing burnout

one bet at a time

Long Beach Island

sun-brown men

jest from baking rooftops,

women with salt-touched caves

wander the sweaty streets

houses larger than dreams

reach soft powder beaches

and ocean, infinite ocean

—in a straight line,

you’ll reach Portugal

tanned sentries

guard the sands,

eye dolphins in the distance

from the crossed hustle

to the mocking ghost town

after season

the waves roar

their clarion call

to giant dreams

and stars make new friends

with a knowing wink