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

At the After Work Event

standing in the back of the room
away from the buzz of networking
the chit chat and side glances
judging if I am worth talking to

here in theory
to meet people like me
but don’t see any
that are dreaming of poetry
and fire eating,
or worried about Nazis on the moon

spy a woman in black boots
and dream we elope
and leave this reception, this life
behind

sputter some more zombie work talk
drained glass, wet napkin in hand

leave as early as I can,
and savor the cold walk
alone

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

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

Night at the Carnival

shoveling fried food

into my mouth

while surveying

the passers by

 —a young parade

of summer delight

to test the men

of Friday night—

but such is this disguise,

ourselves unwell

but artfully wise

and somewhere

dark beneath

a silent warrior’s

sword unsheathed

showing no mercy

the verse unleashed 

Bleary Epiphany

spy the clock to find

the hours burned by fast

distraction waves

abound

like knowing knaves

bringing head-slump slumber

at the desk

the quiet dark

is false calm

a rude pause

to the world’s rage

churning somewhere

always

but the blue night

filled with child of dawn

sparks the need

to fly awake

and burn brighter than magnesium sun

while the rest of the world

slumbers

Winter Night

the sweet bite

of a hard wind

alerts a certain kind

made strong

with a sharp

winter’s mind

pace the cold streets

unbending

feeding glorious

waking dreams

unending

let us be

unbound warriors

burning for the night

made immortal

with the star-glazed

machinery of might

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

Rockport at Night

another youth climbs the tree

this one a barefoot girl

—the cop chased away a boy

as a teenage girl

sings, sings at piano

for a small crowd

people take it upon themselves

to light the paper lanterns

that glow our way through the breezy night

the dark beckons everyone

to the beaches

lawn chairs jockey for space

to spy the fireworks

Lobster Fest has wound down,

dusk shrouds the folded tables and chairs

as visitors mingle and float away

praying they come back