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. 

Hymnal of the Somber 6 Train

like machines

set to go and go

we drone through

these cramped quarters

only to travel some more

precision decisions

to shave precious seconds

from wasting away

we bleed time

into transit hell

more and more each day

the hustle and scrape

for survival pay

we soldier on

burning to do more

and be free of this

daily war

haunts us as we live it

and hunger for more

these dues we pay

and pay again

a thousand faces

press us close

and none of them a friend

Drive Explosion Ego Implosion

hitting pavement

rolling thunder

inviting rain, pain

and highway chimes

following whims

and the faded

roadside signs

letting it all unfold:

prime America

open road

blaring loud

in rabid gasps

begging us to

live again

in garrulous blasts

roughhousing

our own way

years upon years

beauty and glorious

without time

for tears

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

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

Il Toscano

The Douglaston rabble

is old and loud;

they shout at the waiter

by name.

The heat flushes us;

we stay stoic and proud.

We look the part,

but can’t act the same.

We pay our bill,

savor the coffee

and the fact

we have souls.

We draw our power

from the star-splattered night;

we soar above these petty lords

and their reign over dinner chairs.

We dip

our coffee spoons

in the soft flank

of the ice cream.

Tip well

and glide through

the dining rooms

and away;

running headstrong

into the winter night

and greater magic

to come.

Quest for Cold

Bring us that air of steel,

the punching breeze

that makes us real.

Thrive in crystal bold

blankets of white

that let us draw from the cold

to give us might.

Let us have the joy

of breath like ice

a little longer.

Give us the season

that makes us stronger.

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. 

At the Campbell Apartment

an old safe

in a faux fireplace

prays mutely

for greater purpose;

the guests

don’t think about

its great secrets

or former treasures

as they swirl their wine

chatter echoes on,

words falling

uncounted

on the dusky walls

minutia of business,

hollow words

stream endlessly,

keeping us from

going home

to real life

and our better selves

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

Happy Quotidian Murder Story

one small step

can snuff  a whole day

cast a dark pall

every which way

churn with nervous burn

while stomach butterflies

struggle to keep pace

whiff of death air

permeates everywhere

when sufficed to stay

at one’s own station

it’s the glory of breakage

the carnage of liberation

that makes the most

of life’s celebration

Civilization of the Waffle House

not some sickly trough

where America slouches to binge

but an island of civility

amid a nation unhinged

a respite from the lunacy

the vitriol and spite

avert our eyes from the crumbling land

the fast approaching night

our pulse, barometer, shelter, guide

a safe hospitality

and a great place to hide

friendly to a fault

that shames a jaded traveler

breaking fast our only task 

a vacation from disaster

From Mohonk Mountain House

somehow at peace

in these mountains

as cold bites at every turn

sweeping views

to dare the cold

while drawing heat

from our own dark flames

tempting ghosts

with every turn

down quiet halls

plotting

our own worlds

among the chattering diners

braving chill barns

to marvel at glorious history

carved out hard rock

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