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

Walt Whitman’s Ghost on the Q34 Bus

He stalks our dark canyons

by firelight

casting star-shadows

on the rain-slicked streets

Rejoicing

at the church of life

at our chaotic march

led by endless, sacred dreams

He lets it all

flow around him,

such joy among the throngs

that fed him long ago

Packed to the gills,

steaming the windows

with breath

from every corner of Earth

so many mysteries, lives

intersecting in this beast

Walt Whitman,

your Holy Ghost

rolls on

even here,

an overcrowded bus

on the ass end of Queens

You dance on the fingers

of old maids, immigrant children

and harried drivers.

You keep us hopeful

when humanity fails us, again.

You are here,

in every strange swirl of humanity,

in every passing glance at forbidden fruit.

Your ghost sustains us, reminds us

that there is joy to be unearthed

like gemstone treasure,

even here.

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

Weary Bleary Fog-Eyed Burn

at some point

we betray ourselves

at work

the way our eyes

glaze over

at meetings

or how the inner fire

shines through

when talk turns

to the outside world

pleased and relieved

to be the outliers,

the tired dogs

that can do the harder work

without pretending

cloaked

in solitude

to dream

of better things

Day Adventuring

day adventuring

is driving, moving

to keep moving,

staring at rusted rebar

prodding wrought fingers

out of New Deal concrete

kissed by aquamarine

it is

reigning

over dead end streets

or quiet parks

where ducks wade

out of reach,

feeding sun-touched turtles

for their boldness

adventure is somehow

snatching solitude

like urchins steal bread

and pray

to the hedonist war gods

that we do not hang for it all

A Climbing Rock

A father’s job

is a climbing rock

to be that rough path

that winds to the top

to rule with love 

to tempt the fates

to put muscle on bones

and food on plates

hewn from

ancient tectonic madness

to guide through scrapes

and be a salve for sadness

unending

unbending and deep

to protect, defend

and lull to sleep

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.

Americans Setting Fires

our blazes now

signal only faded glory

facades of parchment

paper over

our revolution story

the few of us remaining

that have a faith to keep

grip our pistols tight

and set ablaze

this sickly barn of sheep

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

The Truth of First Light

the pull of sleep

loses its hold

when the dawn

first light offers

to burn off the cold

the sweet dew chill

little sought

but for the take

a just reward

for being awake

catching the sky

blue for the right eyes

to set our hopeful gaze

and have adventure

before the heated haze

like the hunter

who sacrificed the night

this is the moment

arrived with first light

A Cold Forest Lament

the woods play tricks

and leave the weary

to walk home aching,

tiring with each step,

mired in a vulture’s quiet

boundary and man breaker,

jester and solemn teacher,

the land reflects

the mind of the hunter:

sometimes mad,

but always hungry