Wedding After Party

a last pocket of survivors

in a quiet world

we lift our glasses,

toast the happy couple

3 a.m. on empty roads

that glisten and smell like spring

traffic lights click away

and do their color dance

for random strangers

we stagger and sway

chatter for the newlyweds

having their wedding night

a friend throws money

into our new used truck

to bring us children

and a bit of luck

we climb in

and drive

to the next adventure

From the Hudson Line

Chatty girls

run dialogue

through the miles

—puke stories

and mistaken texts,

who is where

and Spanish wraps.

Trackside

the mounds of rubble

are overgrown,

ghosts of labor

years ago,

dreams and hard work

now unknown.

Grind of history

merciless still,

but we power through

with power and will.

Willis Cemetery

The cemetery

carved out of the White Mountains

has room for more

who are strong enough

to stay

Hopeful sightings of youth

among the hard old timers:

rays of light

between the shuttered homes.

Here our nation

still lives.

Here the spirits

of old settlers

make our sleek city lives

look small.

At Kerouac’s Grave

surrounded by death

and crumbling Lowell

but we’re ready

to embrace it all

to love America

like the mad poets

of ti Jean’s dreams

we shake our white-knuckle fists

at the frowning gawkers

at the indifferent universe

at the cold stars

from our smoldering Earth

we laugh again

refueled in our crazed minds

ready to live harder

and burn in ethereal magic light

across the face of the world

Irish Women

starlight beauty

drawn to kiss lightly

over every freckle

glowing face,

smile a shining emerald

of lost lands

smooth strong arms

shaped

to carry babies and muskets

eyes alight

with the power

of sweat-drenched promises

and closed for a kiss

that can keep it all going

another thousand years

L.I.E. at 4:32 a.m.

bleary blinking

with van-heavy brakefoot

cargo sliding to and fro

shiny road

swooshing underneath

streaked

in reflector rainlight

passed out passengers

swaying to the beat

of cruising speed

dodging the reckless trucks

panic-flushed

by invisible lane lines

casting out signals

as the cold traffic

keeps whizzing 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

Revenge of the Blue Light

In the lush green

dream night,

bruised and stained

by the sweet chase,

we get to that

mysterious place,

that Daisy’s pier

in heavenly space

to find the blue light

is only a ghost,

a glimpse of dying star,

a sinister dream,

parasite

to our host.

We shake our fist at this, unfair,

ignoring the starry night,

the cooling air.

Burning with anger,

but we have no case,

trying to weave paradise

from a shallow place. 

Alley Walk

strange light

from spring rain twilight

guiding odd characters

seeking refuge from the sun

spreading ethereal glow

across quiet rooftops,

and empty street corners

where wood-tar telephone poles

stand silent sentry

this light

brings the muses

to Earth,

it dances away

before we can give it voice

inspiring, torturing

the youthful heart

that burns to spark life

from all of it 

Rocky Neck

art plied honestly

in sweat and heat

hard wrought

beside the sun-kissed lobstermen

waving gracefully

to rough locals

and soft tourists

where joyous newlyweds

sketch their own future

panel by panel

muck deep

in tiny horseshoe crabs

scrambling in low tide pools

away from baby girls

where dogs swim

beside the private beaches

and the rich sands

are slick

with stubborn seaweed carpets

let’s be worthy of this place,

may we have the good sense

to live lives

as beautiful as this

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. 

Breeze Damage

much more trouble

than tussled hair

or the dust void

on the floor

from what’s missing there

an uprooted mudline

is this purgatory’s border

a ruined life’s chaos

keeps its own

kind of order

there’s no engineer

to blame,

no liable claim

moneyed salvation

is the flip side of nature,

and a zero-sum game

those forces that

greened the grass

and churned the sea

gladly unglued it all

for you and me

we’ll watch it

powerlessly

and let it be

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

Memories of Beer

a hot numbness

of happiness, wet

and sends us

to that sweet deadly zone

            that craves the next

            and the next again

release that makes carefree

but wary the supply may dry

living for the comfort cocoon,

for the lullaby music

of the crack of can

or the vacuum kiss

of the frost-smoke bottle

remembering to be slave

to that cold kiss,

gateway 

to an uncertain heaven