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

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 

For the Werewolves

I sweat each day

To earn my hide

To burn off this shell

And reveal the wolf inside

By work and desire

Embrace trial by fire

And make ourselves worthy

Of the life of blood and iron

Father’s Day at the Carnival

a tinkering sun glints sharply

from spinning rides,

small feet scamper

on dry grass

through laughter and chaos

to an unhinged carousel

with a wink

from the leathered carney

clasping sweaty little hands

to thunder past

the shady barkers,

hurtling headlong

into years

of everyday madness

and new adventure

of whatever comes next 

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

Mud Soup

churning churlish

under canopy of trees

at the quiet park

summer streets simmer

while temptint rain

the only Dad here

hiding under a sweaty hat

trying not to gawk

at the fit mom

breastfeeding

and the cool dirt

speaks to me

when the girls pile it

to build their castle

we endure all shapes

of absurdities

to give our blood kin

an edge,

grateful we no longer

have to kill for it

the girls

make their quiet father

mud soup

I pretend to sip it

—delicious—

as I wait

to unleash their ambition

upon the world

Righteous Fires in the American Mind

Our land,

born from multitudes

of blood,

cannot slip peacefully

into old age.

Like these fireworks,

we flare brilliantly,

a shining white hot light

for all to see,

violent,

ending in charred carnage.

History is our loving scold:

Independence is the love of danger

and the thrill of the hunt.

Let us make kindling of our fears.

Let us rattle the slumbering minds

with our fire at the ready

and our gunpowder dry.

If our end is in madness,

it will be righteous and strange.

Lone Wolf in Manhattan

stop to realize

I have become

a walking relic,

a tie-wearing man

in an open-collar world

where eunuchs grow beards

and women lean in

when they should stand

where savages

are taken for scholars

and beauty and art

is measured in dollars

but I smile widely

as I spot the sharp eyes

of my growing tribe

recused

and refuse

to live a lie

Simmering Summer Song

baked in a flush rage

the bright heat

pounding fists

from above and below

blast-furnace breeze

finds us

even among the trees

shroud-hiding

in plain sight

a sun-glass spy

avoiding the light

a self-styled wolf

stalking prey

that always gets away

we know our roles

as sun-touched souls

holding the line

until North winds

have their time

August Night

the music played

a sweaty, drunken romp;

a random gathering

on forgotten benches

as cabs careened

up 6^th Avenue

kissing to the white noise

that was Friday night’s anarchy,

the Village sang for us

and sent us on our way

Lunch Walk

Less time than a prison yard

but more

to put under gaze.

We seek to be invisible,

dissipate

into the summer haze.

Work piles up

while we breath fresh air

for our only fun.

Let the scene to be seen

turn and blister

in the sun.

Wear eight hats

and pulled

every which way.

We let work eat up

too much of our day.

Someday

we’ll go on our lunch walk

to stay.   

Song of the Hooves

Soundly uplifting

to be the workhorse,

to charge unbroken,

scarred by thorny brush.

Make earthly tremors

a calling card.

Let armchair emperors

taste blood and dust.

Let very course

be a thunderous plain,

let every harness

lay broken beneath. 

Bounce University

an upward swing

from every down-pressed time

every fracture of spirit

every dying sign

basic joy of motion

as we laugh among the screams

primal, carnal joy commotion

powers scattered tribal dreams

jumping high

and shoeless

as if making pagan prayer

smiling and remorseless

as we immolate with flair

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