It’s not the first time that I’ve ruined dinner
Trying to write a poem.
Tonight
I overcooked the burgers.
Not just a little.
And the dogs
Ate the buns
That I so carefully cut
And placed on the counter.
I was so looking forward
To those sesame seeds
Toasted on the grill.
I’m left with lukewarm beans
Because I shut them off
An hour ago
For fear of burning them
And mediocre potato salad
That I purchased
From the supermarket.
Things don’t change.
They don’t get any different.
I keep writing poems.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sirens
It was a humid evening
In Lambchopville
And I was walking the cracked concrete
Of my neighborhood
In silence
Head
Slightly tilted.
You know...
Lazy like.
I was tired and sweating.
My mind was on unsettled things.
They approached
To the left
Way ahead
Of me passing them.
Walking smoothly
As if they were electronic devices
Next to one another
Parading in unison
Eyes flashing
Red
Like LED’s.
They were dressed for an affair
With billowy summer dresses
And salon hair.
Expensive I might add.
They approached
Closer
And I greeted them.
“Hi! How are you ladies doing?”
The pair of them
Turned to look at me
At the same time
And immediately
Started chirping
Some nonsense jibberish.
“Lllluuuuu...Rrrreeep....Quallllloooowww”
Like night sparrows they sang
Crooning
As they turned the corner
In tandem
And kept walking
And singing
Down the
Crooked sidewalks
Perforated with crabgrass
That is common in my town.
Hypnotized
I watched them
As their billowy summer dresses
Failed into the
Oceanic fall of night
And their siren’s song
Was devoured
By the passing
Of trucks and cars
Of this world
That was mine
And not theirs.
In Lambchopville
And I was walking the cracked concrete
Of my neighborhood
In silence
Head
Slightly tilted.
You know...
Lazy like.
I was tired and sweating.
My mind was on unsettled things.
They approached
To the left
Way ahead
Of me passing them.
Walking smoothly
As if they were electronic devices
Next to one another
Parading in unison
Eyes flashing
Red
Like LED’s.
They were dressed for an affair
With billowy summer dresses
And salon hair.
Expensive I might add.
They approached
Closer
And I greeted them.
“Hi! How are you ladies doing?”
The pair of them
Turned to look at me
At the same time
And immediately
Started chirping
Some nonsense jibberish.
“Lllluuuuu...Rrrreeep....Quallllloooowww”
Like night sparrows they sang
Crooning
As they turned the corner
In tandem
And kept walking
And singing
Down the
Crooked sidewalks
Perforated with crabgrass
That is common in my town.
Hypnotized
I watched them
As their billowy summer dresses
Failed into the
Oceanic fall of night
And their siren’s song
Was devoured
By the passing
Of trucks and cars
Of this world
That was mine
And not theirs.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Bohicket Road
Driving through the tunnel
Of shrouded oaks that is Bohicket Road.
I am on a sloooowwww ride.
The heartbeat bass of hip hop
Is playing loudly on the Jeep’s radio
As I make the pass
Through the nature and ghetto
Of the Gullah
In the Outer Banks
Of South Carolina.
But even so
With the windows open
The music is still overcome
By the louder cacophony of crickets and frogs
Hidden deep within
The marsh and woods
Dense in the humidity all around me.
The perfumed sweat
Of Southern Carolina shoreline
Is swallowing me up
As I pass ramshackle vegetable stands
With handmade misspelled signs
That are closed for the night.
There are many great black trees
Swathed with elaborate grave markers
Beaconing some amigo’s unfortunate end.
I’ve seen them all juiced up and acting loco
Impervious to the high speed traffic
Impaired thinking and motion
Meeting crumpled fender
Or silver bumper
At the side of this long road.
Most of the single level homes
That I pass at 50 mph
Still have their Christmas lights up
And there are trailers with gardens
Of debris
And rust
Statuary
And broken furniture.
The Jeep rushes by churches.
Lots of churches.
Abandoned churches.
Churches in people’s homes.
Simple churches
As old as the road
That I’m travelling on.
I can hear cats in heat
And ferocious dogs barking
At the ends of chain
As long as the yards.
I ease past chrome parties
One hand on the wheel.
Gatherings of young, stoic black men
Lifting forties and shorties
And Bud tall boys.
Blazing with the family.
The smoke from the barbeque
Mixing with the chalice being passed around
The choking
Laughing circle.
I can sense the tattooed criminals
On parole
As they smile at me
Through their metal grilles
Their muscular arms
Flashing in the firelight.
I can feel the voudoun vibe
The Gullah spirit
Woven tightly
Within the corn rowed hair.
The history here
Is long and extended.
Generations upon generations.
Yet it reaches in through
The open windows
In a quick and sweeping pass
Gripping me dead on
Thumping me in the chest
Point blank
Like a fellow heavily inked bretheren
Welcoming me home
And putting the drink immediately to my lips.
Driving through the tunnel
Of shrouded oaks that is Bohicket Road.
I am on a sloooowwww ride.
The heartbeat bass of hip hop
Is playing loudly on the Jeep’s radio
As I make the pass
Through the nature and ghetto
Of the Gullah
In the Outer Banks
Of South Carolina.
But even so
With the windows open
The music is still overcome
By the louder cacophony of crickets and frogs
Hidden deep within
The marsh and woods
Dense in the humidity all around me.
The perfumed sweat
Of Southern Carolina shoreline
Is swallowing me up
As I pass ramshackle vegetable stands
With handmade misspelled signs
That are closed for the night.
There are many great black trees
Swathed with elaborate grave markers
Beaconing some amigo’s unfortunate end.
I’ve seen them all juiced up and acting loco
Impervious to the high speed traffic
Impaired thinking and motion
Meeting crumpled fender
Or silver bumper
At the side of this long road.
Most of the single level homes
That I pass at 50 mph
Still have their Christmas lights up
And there are trailers with gardens
Of debris
And rust
Statuary
And broken furniture.
The Jeep rushes by churches.
Lots of churches.
Abandoned churches.
Churches in people’s homes.
Simple churches
As old as the road
That I’m travelling on.
I can hear cats in heat
And ferocious dogs barking
At the ends of chain
As long as the yards.
I ease past chrome parties
One hand on the wheel.
Gatherings of young, stoic black men
Lifting forties and shorties
And Bud tall boys.
Blazing with the family.
The smoke from the barbeque
Mixing with the chalice being passed around
The choking
Laughing circle.
I can sense the tattooed criminals
On parole
As they smile at me
Through their metal grilles
Their muscular arms
Flashing in the firelight.
I can feel the voudoun vibe
The Gullah spirit
Woven tightly
Within the corn rowed hair.
The history here
Is long and extended.
Generations upon generations.
Yet it reaches in through
The open windows
In a quick and sweeping pass
Gripping me dead on
Thumping me in the chest
Point blank
Like a fellow heavily inked bretheren
Welcoming me home
And putting the drink immediately to my lips.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Bastard
(Too Small To Fail)
I was born high in the hills...
And ‘High’ is the operative word here...
To some fiery folks
That took great pleasure
In the disdain
Of the life
That they had encumbered
Specially when they took
Monster swigs
Outtah the jelly jars
On the top shelf
In the kitchen.
Top shelf was miles
Diff’rent back then.
I was birthed
At an ungodly hour of night
That was neither polite
Nor convenient
To the country veterinarian
That had to travel several miles
On the dark, rutted dirt roads...
So his patience was short
As he worked me out of the womb.
The same man that births the local
Cows, horses, goats and pigs
And so
Fittingly
He birthed me
With the same crude compassion.
When I came out a-squealing
And kicking
He cut my umbilical cord
With a jelly jar dipped
Hunting knife
And quickly tied it off
With the rough twine
That mah Mammah usetah
Dress the stolen chickens with
Before throwing them in the oven.
Mah naval still looks fucked up
Like a tumorous nub
Allah these years later.
I used a similar kindah rope
To hold mah pants up
When I went tah school
And it itched my belly fiercely.
Nothing like a red splotchy stomach
Tah drive yer mind
From the studies in earnest.
That and the exposed skin
Of Sarah Anne’s thighs
As she sat quietly at her desk.
Beautiful white skin stretched over
Thigh muscles
Strong from running home
After school every day.
Oh Sarah Anne
I remember you
Like the rosebushes and peonies
That grew wild
And wreckless
In front of Ol’ Man Hanson’s house
Exploding in bloom in the late Spring.
In the Fall we would sneak up
And pick tart juicey apples
From his prized Braeburn and Winesap trees.
God help anyone who got caught.
I still have my flannel shirt
With the right sleeve
Torn away in fetters
From the rock salt
That he blasted on me.
My arm burned like the Devil’s Fire itself.
It was through tears
That I watched him jump up and down
On his front porch
Waving his shotgun in victory.
“That’ll teach yew, yew lil basterds!”
“Yew tell allah yer friends wot happens if’n they try ta get my apples!”
If yah look real close in the right light
Yah can see the scars
Where I spent the rest of that afternoon
Picking that shit out
Of my oozing arm.
I’m sorry...
Mah mind is wandering.
That seems tah be a flaw in my character
A simple mind such as mine
Can’t stay on track fer very long.
Mah brain moves faster
Than I can talk
Sometimes giving people
The wrong impression
That ah am slow
When in fact
I am fast...
I can’t even keep up with mahself.
So with allah the distractions and white noise
I didn’t finish school
Leaving instead
Without my parent’s consent
To join
‘Dr. Kirchok’s Traveling Emporium Of Gifted And Unusual Curiosities’
That would more often than not
Attach itself to several different carnies
Depending on scheduling and whereabouts.
I started out as chore boy
Setting up, breaking down
Feeding the few animals
In our entourage
Rubbing Talcum Powder inbetween the folds
Of Hilda-The Human Whale Of A Woman’s bloated flesh
To keep it from rubbing raw against itself
Causing her huge discomfort.
She could be a REAL bitch
If she was uncomfortable.
She was known for her mean backhand
That would come without warning.
I caught the weight of her flabby hand
Across mah face
And she sent Raldo The Seal Boy
Tumbling across the baked dry dirt
To the other side of the tent
With one giant sweep
Of her jiggiling arm
Sending him off for a visit to the carney doctor
And keeping him out of work for a week
Though I think he was milking it for the sympathy.
It might have caused him
Great depression.
In any case...
It did cause the Great Dr. Kirchok
To pay a visit to the fat lady
And he evidently came down
Pretty hard on her
Docking her pay
For the misfortune.
The worst punishment employed
On any sideshow performer.
A bit of self satisfactoial revenge
For the limbless
Helpless but popular Raldo.
It was during this tenure
That I got hooked up with the Meth heads
That ran the Dark Rides
In the carney.
I would finish my duties
And wander over to the carney side.
The Tunnel Of Love
The Haunted House
The Tea Cups
The pathetic Roller Coaster
The Himalaya
The Fun House Of Mirrors
I’d snort or shoot speed
With the Op’s
And shoot the shit
And help them close up
Or break down.
I raised enough money
To buy a kangaroo boxing rig
From a guy from Tennessee
For what I thought
Was a great deal.
I paid $1200.00
Including the trailer and the
Beat up International
Pick up truck
With balding tires
Complete with the privilege of illegal temporary use
Of registration and plates.
I brought the rig over to
Dr. Kirchok’s Traveling Emporium Of Gifted And Unusual Curiosities
Giving great performances
Of getting my ass kicked by two kangaroos
For several years.
It was either the smell of
Kangaroo piss and shit
The cracked ribs
Broken nose
Or general damage
Inflicted on my body
Or the continual use of speed
That got the better of me.
But I grifted the shabang
For a small profit
To a chore boy
In a similar position to mine
A few years before.
I wandered after that
Making money how I could.
Many of it not so proudly.
And I spent it
On whores
Tobacco
Cheap booze
And speed when I could.
Sometimes I would spend it
On food
Or a place to sleep
Though that was rare.
I had my priorities.
Things were a blur for awhile.
I ain’t to proud to tell some
Of the things that I’ve done
But I did them outtah survival.
Are you following me
Or am I talkin’ too much.
It’s a residue
From the Meth.
I talk a lot
Without making a point sometimes.
I am trying to make a point.
Bear with me.
I got married once.
Thought I had met
My be all end all.
I pictured us sitting on a porch
Someday
Old
And in love.
Just rockin’
Back n’ forth.
So old
We couldn’t have sex no more
But we were in love.
Well that went South.
I took up an apartment
Above a whorehouse
After that
And I just started to read.
I read prolifically.
Great books.
I cleaned the toilets
And soiled sheets for rent.
I soon scheduled the ‘gals’
I cooked dinners
For them
And acted as security
For times when things
Got outtah hand.
I washed their undies.
I was a chore boy again.
But I was able to steal
Books from the
Store down the street
And ‘Borrow’ books
From the library.
Mah life has been
A few mistakes
And a bunch of reaching.
I want the golden ticket.
I want to win the lottery.
Of which I play every payday.
I want to catch that brass ring
As I pass by
On the Merry Go Round.
But I’ve been thinking.
And this is my thought
That I wanted to get across
Originally.
I may not be particularly educated
Or well read
But then
I don’t thinks ya have tah be
A very smart man
Tah figure out that there’s a lot of things
Wrong in the world today
That need fixin’
And people are dragging their feet
Like thay were stuck on flypaper.
Me.
I was never stuck on flypaper.
I just needed to do the things
That needed to be done.
And I did them
Rarely making effort.
Too small to fail.
(Too Small To Fail)
I was born high in the hills...
And ‘High’ is the operative word here...
To some fiery folks
That took great pleasure
In the disdain
Of the life
That they had encumbered
Specially when they took
Monster swigs
Outtah the jelly jars
On the top shelf
In the kitchen.
Top shelf was miles
Diff’rent back then.
I was birthed
At an ungodly hour of night
That was neither polite
Nor convenient
To the country veterinarian
That had to travel several miles
On the dark, rutted dirt roads...
So his patience was short
As he worked me out of the womb.
The same man that births the local
Cows, horses, goats and pigs
And so
Fittingly
He birthed me
With the same crude compassion.
When I came out a-squealing
And kicking
He cut my umbilical cord
With a jelly jar dipped
Hunting knife
And quickly tied it off
With the rough twine
That mah Mammah usetah
Dress the stolen chickens with
Before throwing them in the oven.
Mah naval still looks fucked up
Like a tumorous nub
Allah these years later.
I used a similar kindah rope
To hold mah pants up
When I went tah school
And it itched my belly fiercely.
Nothing like a red splotchy stomach
Tah drive yer mind
From the studies in earnest.
That and the exposed skin
Of Sarah Anne’s thighs
As she sat quietly at her desk.
Beautiful white skin stretched over
Thigh muscles
Strong from running home
After school every day.
Oh Sarah Anne
I remember you
Like the rosebushes and peonies
That grew wild
And wreckless
In front of Ol’ Man Hanson’s house
Exploding in bloom in the late Spring.
In the Fall we would sneak up
And pick tart juicey apples
From his prized Braeburn and Winesap trees.
God help anyone who got caught.
I still have my flannel shirt
With the right sleeve
Torn away in fetters
From the rock salt
That he blasted on me.
My arm burned like the Devil’s Fire itself.
It was through tears
That I watched him jump up and down
On his front porch
Waving his shotgun in victory.
“That’ll teach yew, yew lil basterds!”
“Yew tell allah yer friends wot happens if’n they try ta get my apples!”
If yah look real close in the right light
Yah can see the scars
Where I spent the rest of that afternoon
Picking that shit out
Of my oozing arm.
I’m sorry...
Mah mind is wandering.
That seems tah be a flaw in my character
A simple mind such as mine
Can’t stay on track fer very long.
Mah brain moves faster
Than I can talk
Sometimes giving people
The wrong impression
That ah am slow
When in fact
I am fast...
I can’t even keep up with mahself.
So with allah the distractions and white noise
I didn’t finish school
Leaving instead
Without my parent’s consent
To join
‘Dr. Kirchok’s Traveling Emporium Of Gifted And Unusual Curiosities’
That would more often than not
Attach itself to several different carnies
Depending on scheduling and whereabouts.
I started out as chore boy
Setting up, breaking down
Feeding the few animals
In our entourage
Rubbing Talcum Powder inbetween the folds
Of Hilda-The Human Whale Of A Woman’s bloated flesh
To keep it from rubbing raw against itself
Causing her huge discomfort.
She could be a REAL bitch
If she was uncomfortable.
She was known for her mean backhand
That would come without warning.
I caught the weight of her flabby hand
Across mah face
And she sent Raldo The Seal Boy
Tumbling across the baked dry dirt
To the other side of the tent
With one giant sweep
Of her jiggiling arm
Sending him off for a visit to the carney doctor
And keeping him out of work for a week
Though I think he was milking it for the sympathy.
It might have caused him
Great depression.
In any case...
It did cause the Great Dr. Kirchok
To pay a visit to the fat lady
And he evidently came down
Pretty hard on her
Docking her pay
For the misfortune.
The worst punishment employed
On any sideshow performer.
A bit of self satisfactoial revenge
For the limbless
Helpless but popular Raldo.
It was during this tenure
That I got hooked up with the Meth heads
That ran the Dark Rides
In the carney.
I would finish my duties
And wander over to the carney side.
The Tunnel Of Love
The Haunted House
The Tea Cups
The pathetic Roller Coaster
The Himalaya
The Fun House Of Mirrors
I’d snort or shoot speed
With the Op’s
And shoot the shit
And help them close up
Or break down.
I raised enough money
To buy a kangaroo boxing rig
From a guy from Tennessee
For what I thought
Was a great deal.
I paid $1200.00
Including the trailer and the
Beat up International
Pick up truck
With balding tires
Complete with the privilege of illegal temporary use
Of registration and plates.
I brought the rig over to
Dr. Kirchok’s Traveling Emporium Of Gifted And Unusual Curiosities
Giving great performances
Of getting my ass kicked by two kangaroos
For several years.
It was either the smell of
Kangaroo piss and shit
The cracked ribs
Broken nose
Or general damage
Inflicted on my body
Or the continual use of speed
That got the better of me.
But I grifted the shabang
For a small profit
To a chore boy
In a similar position to mine
A few years before.
I wandered after that
Making money how I could.
Many of it not so proudly.
And I spent it
On whores
Tobacco
Cheap booze
And speed when I could.
Sometimes I would spend it
On food
Or a place to sleep
Though that was rare.
I had my priorities.
Things were a blur for awhile.
I ain’t to proud to tell some
Of the things that I’ve done
But I did them outtah survival.
Are you following me
Or am I talkin’ too much.
It’s a residue
From the Meth.
I talk a lot
Without making a point sometimes.
I am trying to make a point.
Bear with me.
I got married once.
Thought I had met
My be all end all.
I pictured us sitting on a porch
Someday
Old
And in love.
Just rockin’
Back n’ forth.
So old
We couldn’t have sex no more
But we were in love.
Well that went South.
I took up an apartment
Above a whorehouse
After that
And I just started to read.
I read prolifically.
Great books.
I cleaned the toilets
And soiled sheets for rent.
I soon scheduled the ‘gals’
I cooked dinners
For them
And acted as security
For times when things
Got outtah hand.
I washed their undies.
I was a chore boy again.
But I was able to steal
Books from the
Store down the street
And ‘Borrow’ books
From the library.
Mah life has been
A few mistakes
And a bunch of reaching.
I want the golden ticket.
I want to win the lottery.
Of which I play every payday.
I want to catch that brass ring
As I pass by
On the Merry Go Round.
But I’ve been thinking.
And this is my thought
That I wanted to get across
Originally.
I may not be particularly educated
Or well read
But then
I don’t thinks ya have tah be
A very smart man
Tah figure out that there’s a lot of things
Wrong in the world today
That need fixin’
And people are dragging their feet
Like thay were stuck on flypaper.
Me.
I was never stuck on flypaper.
I just needed to do the things
That needed to be done.
And I did them
Rarely making effort.
Too small to fail.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Performance
I stand here
Center stage
A hollow puppet
With limbs held together
By Band-Aides.
My once dancing strings
Are silent and
Lifeless.
It’s embarrassing too.
My costume
Being a pair of stained
Boxers
With polka dots on them.
I cannot hide
From the bright
Invading light
From high above the dirty stage.
The heat from which
Causes me to sweat
The salty dew
Making the Band-Aides
Start to peel away
From my white flesh
And I wish the tattered curtain would close
Before I fall apart.
I stand here
Center stage
A hollow puppet
With limbs held together
By Band-Aides.
My once dancing strings
Are silent and
Lifeless.
It’s embarrassing too.
My costume
Being a pair of stained
Boxers
With polka dots on them.
I cannot hide
From the bright
Invading light
From high above the dirty stage.
The heat from which
Causes me to sweat
The salty dew
Making the Band-Aides
Start to peel away
From my white flesh
And I wish the tattered curtain would close
Before I fall apart.
Killing Art
The red cylinder is solid in my hands
Smooth albeit a few scratches
Slightly cool metal turning warm
To the touch
The warning stickers
Paintings themselves
Telling of danger
In bold yellow and black graphics.
I turn the knob clockwise
And a radiator hiss
Erupts from the tip of the nozzle
As I work the striker
Sending small white sparks
Into the basement smell of the gas.
Ignition.
A peacock blue flame
Narrow and precise
Like the point of a pencil
The tip of a sable brush
The sharp end of a knife.
Oh
Little red killing machine.
What beauty shall we
Bring forth
On a night such as this?
The red cylinder is solid in my hands
Smooth albeit a few scratches
Slightly cool metal turning warm
To the touch
The warning stickers
Paintings themselves
Telling of danger
In bold yellow and black graphics.
I turn the knob clockwise
And a radiator hiss
Erupts from the tip of the nozzle
As I work the striker
Sending small white sparks
Into the basement smell of the gas.
Ignition.
A peacock blue flame
Narrow and precise
Like the point of a pencil
The tip of a sable brush
The sharp end of a knife.
Oh
Little red killing machine.
What beauty shall we
Bring forth
On a night such as this?
Monday, June 7, 2010
White Boys In West Harlem
162 and Amsterdam
Once you were there you were somewhat safe.
It was getting there that there was a chance of being robbed.
So we usually drove
But that had it’s own problems
Usually alluding the undercover cops in the area.
We were regulars and bought weight
So we had keys to the buildings.
We would walk right by the ten year old boys trying to sell
And they were everywhere.
That’s how this shit all started.
I remember buying an eight ball
From some juvenile Columbian boy.
I handed him my money through the window
And drove around the block
As he was coming back out
And handed me a tightly wrapped foil packet
That I could smell instantly through it’s metal.
But now we were regulars buying half pieces or more
And I jumped out of the car
Walked up those brownstone steps
And put the keys into the lock of the door.
The Colombians owned this zone.
It was a lock down.
I would walk past guards with machine guns
Uzis and openly displayed Glocks.
Those same boy peddlers outside walked amongst the filth,
The fear, the depression, past these guns
How many times a day?
I wondered.
The air was thick with cigarette and cigar smoke.
As long as you were there on business
Nobody fucked with you.
Once I saw them beating the shit
Out of someone in the hallway.
No idea why.
I had to actually wait for them to finish
Before I continued upstairs.
I had no idea what they were screaming at the poor fuck.
My Spanish wasn’t that great.
And as I was checked and led up to the door
My heart would race...always it did.
There was never any guarantees.
Even if I was a regular.
I just wanted to make it back outside to my friends...
If the situation was reversed
And I was the one waiting in the car
While one of them went in
I’d be nervous for them...
And time would pass so slowly
Until I saw them fall down the steps
Heading for the car.
Once inside the door
There were greetings
Like good friends
But macho,
And mountains of Cocaine.
How this shit could find it’s way
All the way from Columbia
Up to this room
In New York City
Is beyond me.
And you knew that this was just one apartment
In one building, in one block.
You knew there were hundreds more out there
Just like this one.
The sheer volume of it was breathtaking
And it was always like that.
Never once did I go there
And see just a little.
There were blocks of it stacked on a table.
There were piles of it next to the digital scale
And I’m sure there was more that I couldn’t even see.
There were stacks of cash and
Two digital bill counters.
Guns were everywhere
And other than some sparse furniture
There wasn’t much else.
The amigos played the good salespeople
Being friendly and joking
But I knew very well
That I could just as easily
Be that sucker in the hallway
Losing teeth and blood.
I could only trust them
When I had the goods
And was far away
Heading downtown
Or back to Jersey.
When we first started this gig
Surveillence was minimal.
Cops did not want to patrol this area.
It was dangerous.
Once I was held up in a small tienda
In front of several people.
Nobody did anything, of course
They knew the gig.
I was an out of place white boy.
They continued shopping
As he walked out of there
Only after insulting me
And picking me clean.
But over the years
Police presence became more noticable
Especially undercover.
You had to constantly be looking over your shoulder
And sometimes they would tip you off on the inside.
Twice we got popped.
Once when I was leaving the building.
I saw a guy walking up on the opposite side of the street.
It didn’t take me long to figure
That he was after me.
I dropped my evidence
Discretely behind some trash cans
And kept walking.
He came up behind me.
“You!” “Hey white boy! I’m talkin’ to you!” “Punk!”
“Only one reason a white boy like you would be in this neighborhood!”
“You holdin?!”
“No!”
He flashed his badge and patted me down.
He asked me to empty my pockets.
He sees I’m clean.
“What are you doing up here you crazy cracker?!”
“I’m walking to a friends house a coupla blocks from here”
“Yeah, right!” “You are SO out of place up here! Like White on Black!”
“I better not see your white ass around here anytime soon!”
I walked many blocks
And waited under the El tracks.
I knew I had to go back and pick up my drop
And when I did
It was gone.
Someone saw and scored it
Probably one of the juvie lookouts
And I had to get outta there
With nothing.
I had no cash for another draw.
The second time
One of my boys was inside doing the deal
And we were waiting outside in the car.
A cruiser came up and put his lights on.
“Shit!”
One guy got out and asked us what we were doing.
He reminded us to not even think about lying to him
As there is only one reason us white boys would be up in this neighborhood.
His partner came up to the other side of the car.
We told him that we were thinking of buying
But considering the circumstances
We were considering NOT buying.
He told us he couldn’t help but notice the Jersey tags on our car
And that we were going to drive
Directly back to Jersey
As of now
And to make sure
He was going to follow us
To the GW Bridge
To make sure that we got on.
And we did.
And he did.
We got on
And drove down through Jersey
To the Lincoln
And went to one of the clubs that we frequented.
We hated leaving our friend up there alone
But there was nothing that we could do
And eventually he hooked up with us
A little pissed
But he knew the drill
He knew the chances that we took.
We bumped the King
And danced through the night.
It was Area
Or Robots
Danceteria or the Ritz.
It was the Pyramid
The Palladium
CBGB’s or the Mudd Club.
It was Gaseteria
The Tunnel, Limelight
Or the Holiday Bar on St. Marks.
It was rooftop parties
Or the Lower East Side galleries
The Loft and others...
It was a long time ago.
We were young and fearless
White boys
Breaking through the Black city night.
162 and Amsterdam
Once you were there you were somewhat safe.
It was getting there that there was a chance of being robbed.
So we usually drove
But that had it’s own problems
Usually alluding the undercover cops in the area.
We were regulars and bought weight
So we had keys to the buildings.
We would walk right by the ten year old boys trying to sell
And they were everywhere.
That’s how this shit all started.
I remember buying an eight ball
From some juvenile Columbian boy.
I handed him my money through the window
And drove around the block
As he was coming back out
And handed me a tightly wrapped foil packet
That I could smell instantly through it’s metal.
But now we were regulars buying half pieces or more
And I jumped out of the car
Walked up those brownstone steps
And put the keys into the lock of the door.
The Colombians owned this zone.
It was a lock down.
I would walk past guards with machine guns
Uzis and openly displayed Glocks.
Those same boy peddlers outside walked amongst the filth,
The fear, the depression, past these guns
How many times a day?
I wondered.
The air was thick with cigarette and cigar smoke.
As long as you were there on business
Nobody fucked with you.
Once I saw them beating the shit
Out of someone in the hallway.
No idea why.
I had to actually wait for them to finish
Before I continued upstairs.
I had no idea what they were screaming at the poor fuck.
My Spanish wasn’t that great.
And as I was checked and led up to the door
My heart would race...always it did.
There was never any guarantees.
Even if I was a regular.
I just wanted to make it back outside to my friends...
If the situation was reversed
And I was the one waiting in the car
While one of them went in
I’d be nervous for them...
And time would pass so slowly
Until I saw them fall down the steps
Heading for the car.
Once inside the door
There were greetings
Like good friends
But macho,
And mountains of Cocaine.
How this shit could find it’s way
All the way from Columbia
Up to this room
In New York City
Is beyond me.
And you knew that this was just one apartment
In one building, in one block.
You knew there were hundreds more out there
Just like this one.
The sheer volume of it was breathtaking
And it was always like that.
Never once did I go there
And see just a little.
There were blocks of it stacked on a table.
There were piles of it next to the digital scale
And I’m sure there was more that I couldn’t even see.
There were stacks of cash and
Two digital bill counters.
Guns were everywhere
And other than some sparse furniture
There wasn’t much else.
The amigos played the good salespeople
Being friendly and joking
But I knew very well
That I could just as easily
Be that sucker in the hallway
Losing teeth and blood.
I could only trust them
When I had the goods
And was far away
Heading downtown
Or back to Jersey.
When we first started this gig
Surveillence was minimal.
Cops did not want to patrol this area.
It was dangerous.
Once I was held up in a small tienda
In front of several people.
Nobody did anything, of course
They knew the gig.
I was an out of place white boy.
They continued shopping
As he walked out of there
Only after insulting me
And picking me clean.
But over the years
Police presence became more noticable
Especially undercover.
You had to constantly be looking over your shoulder
And sometimes they would tip you off on the inside.
Twice we got popped.
Once when I was leaving the building.
I saw a guy walking up on the opposite side of the street.
It didn’t take me long to figure
That he was after me.
I dropped my evidence
Discretely behind some trash cans
And kept walking.
He came up behind me.
“You!” “Hey white boy! I’m talkin’ to you!” “Punk!”
“Only one reason a white boy like you would be in this neighborhood!”
“You holdin?!”
“No!”
He flashed his badge and patted me down.
He asked me to empty my pockets.
He sees I’m clean.
“What are you doing up here you crazy cracker?!”
“I’m walking to a friends house a coupla blocks from here”
“Yeah, right!” “You are SO out of place up here! Like White on Black!”
“I better not see your white ass around here anytime soon!”
I walked many blocks
And waited under the El tracks.
I knew I had to go back and pick up my drop
And when I did
It was gone.
Someone saw and scored it
Probably one of the juvie lookouts
And I had to get outta there
With nothing.
I had no cash for another draw.
The second time
One of my boys was inside doing the deal
And we were waiting outside in the car.
A cruiser came up and put his lights on.
“Shit!”
One guy got out and asked us what we were doing.
He reminded us to not even think about lying to him
As there is only one reason us white boys would be up in this neighborhood.
His partner came up to the other side of the car.
We told him that we were thinking of buying
But considering the circumstances
We were considering NOT buying.
He told us he couldn’t help but notice the Jersey tags on our car
And that we were going to drive
Directly back to Jersey
As of now
And to make sure
He was going to follow us
To the GW Bridge
To make sure that we got on.
And we did.
And he did.
We got on
And drove down through Jersey
To the Lincoln
And went to one of the clubs that we frequented.
We hated leaving our friend up there alone
But there was nothing that we could do
And eventually he hooked up with us
A little pissed
But he knew the drill
He knew the chances that we took.
We bumped the King
And danced through the night.
It was Area
Or Robots
Danceteria or the Ritz.
It was the Pyramid
The Palladium
CBGB’s or the Mudd Club.
It was Gaseteria
The Tunnel, Limelight
Or the Holiday Bar on St. Marks.
It was rooftop parties
Or the Lower East Side galleries
The Loft and others...
It was a long time ago.
We were young and fearless
White boys
Breaking through the Black city night.
Sinclair Lewis
Sinclair Lewis was a snail
Who left an icky sticky trail.
He tried sneakers.
He tried high heels.
He stopped snacking
Inbetween meals.
He tried deodorant
Herbs and teas.
He even tried walking
On his knees.
But all of these things
Were to no avail...
Sinclair was doomed
To leaving an icky
Sticky
Trail.
Sinclair Lewis was a snail
Who left an icky sticky trail.
He tried sneakers.
He tried high heels.
He stopped snacking
Inbetween meals.
He tried deodorant
Herbs and teas.
He even tried walking
On his knees.
But all of these things
Were to no avail...
Sinclair was doomed
To leaving an icky
Sticky
Trail.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Pussy Drunk
“You really know what your doing”
She says.
“I’m just enthusiastic”
I grin.
“It looks like you really enjoy it”
She responds.
“Like a day off!”
I counter.
“It’s creative like painting or drawing or writing...
Except I have much more energy and commitment
To this...”
I say
Face buried deep.
And from the sounds of her pleasure
I’m getting way better response
Than the rejection letters
That I’ve gotten recently.
She shakes and moans
As she comes
Alerting the neighbors
Outside of my open window.
Her thighs tighten around me
Silencing anything
That can be heard
Except
For the
“Jeezus Fucking Christ!”
As we are thrown all over
The bed.
I will probably wait
All of my entire lifetime
For feedback
To my poetry
Or paintings
Or drawings
To be as well received
As this.
She says.
“I’m just enthusiastic”
I grin.
“It looks like you really enjoy it”
She responds.
“Like a day off!”
I counter.
“It’s creative like painting or drawing or writing...
Except I have much more energy and commitment
To this...”
I say
Face buried deep.
And from the sounds of her pleasure
I’m getting way better response
Than the rejection letters
That I’ve gotten recently.
She shakes and moans
As she comes
Alerting the neighbors
Outside of my open window.
Her thighs tighten around me
Silencing anything
That can be heard
Except
For the
“Jeezus Fucking Christ!”
As we are thrown all over
The bed.
I will probably wait
All of my entire lifetime
For feedback
To my poetry
Or paintings
Or drawings
To be as well received
As this.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Materials Used To Write This Poem
This poem made multi use of the following materials:
Anxiety, Love, Passion, Cosmic Radiation, Bodily Fluids, Oil Paint, Gravity, Paper,
Panic, Anger, Found Objects, Plasma Energy, Broken Glass, Alcohol, Sumi Ink,
Violence, Violins, Bitterness and Resentment, Canvas Sized With Rabbit Glue,
Bad Attitude, Lunar Waves, Pollution, Technology, Human Hair, Eye of Gnewt, Snips
and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails, Polymer Solution, Digital Photography,
Mac Operating System, Black Sense of Humor, Sarcasm,
Oil Pastels and Crayola® Crayons, Courage, Coffee, Childlike Behavior,
The Finest Brushes Made From The Pubic Hairs of Virginal Geishas
(Soon To Be Banned In The State Of California Pending Act: 3204D Sect: B128-C),
Rocket Fuel, A Case Of Warm National Bohemian (Natty Bo) Beer and a Pint of Mad Dog,
Pencil, Rice Paper, Dictionary and Thesaurus, Deer Ticks and Lymes Disease,
Crabs, Low Tide, Incense, Marijuana Butter, Third Rail Electroshock,
New York Times® Headlines, Divine Intervention, Monoprinting, Plagerism®,
Collage From Various Mainstream Porno Mags and Websites (Please see resources),
The Hide Of A Near Extinct Species and a Genetically Modified Form of a Non-
Treatable Strain of a Fatal Illness.
This poem would not have been possible without a generous grant from the
Foundation of Safe and Conforming Arts Council Fund.
Please take a moment to fill out the survey including your email address,
And you could be in the running for some fabulous prizes!
Add this poem to your Facebook, Digg, Twitter and Myspace page!
Anxiety, Love, Passion, Cosmic Radiation, Bodily Fluids, Oil Paint, Gravity, Paper,
Panic, Anger, Found Objects, Plasma Energy, Broken Glass, Alcohol, Sumi Ink,
Violence, Violins, Bitterness and Resentment, Canvas Sized With Rabbit Glue,
Bad Attitude, Lunar Waves, Pollution, Technology, Human Hair, Eye of Gnewt, Snips
and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails, Polymer Solution, Digital Photography,
Mac Operating System, Black Sense of Humor, Sarcasm,
Oil Pastels and Crayola® Crayons, Courage, Coffee, Childlike Behavior,
The Finest Brushes Made From The Pubic Hairs of Virginal Geishas
(Soon To Be Banned In The State Of California Pending Act: 3204D Sect: B128-C),
Rocket Fuel, A Case Of Warm National Bohemian (Natty Bo) Beer and a Pint of Mad Dog,
Pencil, Rice Paper, Dictionary and Thesaurus, Deer Ticks and Lymes Disease,
Crabs, Low Tide, Incense, Marijuana Butter, Third Rail Electroshock,
New York Times® Headlines, Divine Intervention, Monoprinting, Plagerism®,
Collage From Various Mainstream Porno Mags and Websites (Please see resources),
The Hide Of A Near Extinct Species and a Genetically Modified Form of a Non-
Treatable Strain of a Fatal Illness.
This poem would not have been possible without a generous grant from the
Foundation of Safe and Conforming Arts Council Fund.
Please take a moment to fill out the survey including your email address,
And you could be in the running for some fabulous prizes!
Add this poem to your Facebook, Digg, Twitter and Myspace page!
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Employees Must Wash Hands
I entered the men’s room
And cut a hard right
To the urinal.
I was trying to relax
As I stood there
Letting nature work
When I heard the most terrible sounds
And grunting coming from the far stall.
Something very unpleasant was happening
In there...
Or dying.
Nature wasn’t working too well for him.
Then I heard a cell phone
Start ringing muffled.
“Please don’t”, I said to myself, “Please don’t”.
The sound of movement
And ringing
Fumbling
Ringing getting louder.
“Please don’t”. Mantra.
More grunting
As he undoubtably fishes it out
Because it is ringing loudly.
Pause.
Ring!
“Please don’t”
“Yeah!”
“No, no, no...”
“I’m on the second floor!”
“No! I’m in the bathroom!” his voice echoed out of the stall
Into the rest of the public space.
“This is so wrong” I tell myself.
“No, I’m in the bathroom!” Gas escapes.
“Look. Stop bothering me. I’ll be down in a moment.”
I can hear her annoying voice
Over the speaker of the phone.
“No. Don’t bother coming up here. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Heavy breathing while she barks something else.
“I didn’t want to come out shopping to begin with! You made me.”
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I zipped up
Turned around
And washed my hands
The sound of water
Drowning out all else.
I quickly opened the door
Making my swift exit.
I immediately proceeded down the escalator
Moving directly to the entrance of the store
Avoiding looking at anyone
For fear that I would catch a glimpse
Of the ugliness that was on the other end of the phone.
I made it outside and breathed in
The unusually humid Spring air
Carrying the scent of the Mexican joint
Up the street.
There amidst the smell of onions
Peppers
Seasoned beef, chicken
And corn tortillas
I felt dirty, disgusted and defeated.
Any hope for the human race
Squashed
By one person’s decision
To answer the phone
While sitting/shitting on a toilet.
I entered the men’s room
And cut a hard right
To the urinal.
I was trying to relax
As I stood there
Letting nature work
When I heard the most terrible sounds
And grunting coming from the far stall.
Something very unpleasant was happening
In there...
Or dying.
Nature wasn’t working too well for him.
Then I heard a cell phone
Start ringing muffled.
“Please don’t”, I said to myself, “Please don’t”.
The sound of movement
And ringing
Fumbling
Ringing getting louder.
“Please don’t”. Mantra.
More grunting
As he undoubtably fishes it out
Because it is ringing loudly.
Pause.
Ring!
“Please don’t”
“Yeah!”
“No, no, no...”
“I’m on the second floor!”
“No! I’m in the bathroom!” his voice echoed out of the stall
Into the rest of the public space.
“This is so wrong” I tell myself.
“No, I’m in the bathroom!” Gas escapes.
“Look. Stop bothering me. I’ll be down in a moment.”
I can hear her annoying voice
Over the speaker of the phone.
“No. Don’t bother coming up here. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Heavy breathing while she barks something else.
“I didn’t want to come out shopping to begin with! You made me.”
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I zipped up
Turned around
And washed my hands
The sound of water
Drowning out all else.
I quickly opened the door
Making my swift exit.
I immediately proceeded down the escalator
Moving directly to the entrance of the store
Avoiding looking at anyone
For fear that I would catch a glimpse
Of the ugliness that was on the other end of the phone.
I made it outside and breathed in
The unusually humid Spring air
Carrying the scent of the Mexican joint
Up the street.
There amidst the smell of onions
Peppers
Seasoned beef, chicken
And corn tortillas
I felt dirty, disgusted and defeated.
Any hope for the human race
Squashed
By one person’s decision
To answer the phone
While sitting/shitting on a toilet.
Playground
Her bed moves up and down
Like an accordian fold
With the touch of a button
On a white remote.
It’s still
And then
She shows me how
It moves
Slowly
Into different positions
Of which I am not used to.
I am more familiar with a plain and simple regular flat one.
I remember a bed
In a roach ridden motel room
That I shared with a stripper.
I deposited quarters into
A box on the nightstand
And received fifteen minutes
Of monotonous
Irritating vibrations
That just got in the way of everything.
It wasn’t even sexy.
We could only laugh
At the shear noise of it.
But it did make the roaches
Scurry
To an allowable distance.
We spent the rest of the quarters
On cable porn
Like we needed it
And rented the room
By the hour.
Now
I am on a bed
That moves
For the first time
Since then
Many, many years later.
This bed smells good.
And it moves
As she presses the remote control
With a mischievious smirk.
It shifts and changes position
Softly
Like hands
Pressing into my body.
I go for the ride.
I am altogether curious
About this bed
And seduced by the superhuman
Inamorata
Within
It’s bent form.
I challenge positions with her
Like never before
And push her
Into confines
Of which she likes.
She adores tight spots.
With her legs
Above our shoulders
And myself
Pushing deep
Within her
We move together as one...
All of us.
Her, myself
And
Her fondling mechanical bed.
Her bed moves up and down
Like an accordian fold
With the touch of a button
On a white remote.
It’s still
And then
She shows me how
It moves
Slowly
Into different positions
Of which I am not used to.
I am more familiar with a plain and simple regular flat one.
I remember a bed
In a roach ridden motel room
That I shared with a stripper.
I deposited quarters into
A box on the nightstand
And received fifteen minutes
Of monotonous
Irritating vibrations
That just got in the way of everything.
It wasn’t even sexy.
We could only laugh
At the shear noise of it.
But it did make the roaches
Scurry
To an allowable distance.
We spent the rest of the quarters
On cable porn
Like we needed it
And rented the room
By the hour.
Now
I am on a bed
That moves
For the first time
Since then
Many, many years later.
This bed smells good.
And it moves
As she presses the remote control
With a mischievious smirk.
It shifts and changes position
Softly
Like hands
Pressing into my body.
I go for the ride.
I am altogether curious
About this bed
And seduced by the superhuman
Inamorata
Within
It’s bent form.
I challenge positions with her
Like never before
And push her
Into confines
Of which she likes.
She adores tight spots.
With her legs
Above our shoulders
And myself
Pushing deep
Within her
We move together as one...
All of us.
Her, myself
And
Her fondling mechanical bed.
With Age
Mah gurl tells me that my balls hang low.
I guess I’ve never given it much thought
Or even noticed before.
Maybe it’s cause I’ve never worn underwear.
She’s younger than me
And
My guess is
That she has only been with guys
That have younger balls than me.
It’s become quite the joke between us.
But like I said
I’ve not given it much thought
Until now.
I can remember when
My balls were tightly packaged.
I can remember when
That feathery underbrush
Of pubic hair first
Gave sprout
Like bulbs in the spring.
I can still remember
My beautiful balls
Untainted
Virginal
Soft and delicate
Like freshly laundered
300 thread count Egyptian Cotton bedsheets.
They were tight and ripe
Like fresh figs
And juicy like plums.
Inbetween then and now
I don’t know how I lost count.
I don’t know where
I went from that
To this.
And why wouldn’t this happen to me?
I’ve been in the showers at the gym.
I’ve seen old naked men
With their balls
Hanging down to their knees.
Their asses too!
When I was privy to that
I just put it out of my mind.
It was too close to looking in the grave.
But here I am.
My balls are hanging low.
Lower than I’ve ever noticed before.
I’m fourty five years old
And my balls are halfway there...
Halfway to my knees.
I’m right on target.
It’s unsettling that they’re settling.
What am I gonna do now?
There ain’t no exercises
To get your balls in shape!
In other cultures
Low hanging balls are a sign
Of prestige
Wisdom and wealth
Sometimes royalty.
It’s common practice for younger men
To put weights on their balls
To get the desired effect.
It’s not about the size of your penis
But how low your balls go.
That last part is not true.
My balls just made that up.
Mah gurl tells me that my balls hang low.
I guess I’ve never given it much thought
Or even noticed before.
Maybe it’s cause I’ve never worn underwear.
She’s younger than me
And
My guess is
That she has only been with guys
That have younger balls than me.
It’s become quite the joke between us.
But like I said
I’ve not given it much thought
Until now.
I can remember when
My balls were tightly packaged.
I can remember when
That feathery underbrush
Of pubic hair first
Gave sprout
Like bulbs in the spring.
I can still remember
My beautiful balls
Untainted
Virginal
Soft and delicate
Like freshly laundered
300 thread count Egyptian Cotton bedsheets.
They were tight and ripe
Like fresh figs
And juicy like plums.
Inbetween then and now
I don’t know how I lost count.
I don’t know where
I went from that
To this.
And why wouldn’t this happen to me?
I’ve been in the showers at the gym.
I’ve seen old naked men
With their balls
Hanging down to their knees.
Their asses too!
When I was privy to that
I just put it out of my mind.
It was too close to looking in the grave.
But here I am.
My balls are hanging low.
Lower than I’ve ever noticed before.
I’m fourty five years old
And my balls are halfway there...
Halfway to my knees.
I’m right on target.
It’s unsettling that they’re settling.
What am I gonna do now?
There ain’t no exercises
To get your balls in shape!
In other cultures
Low hanging balls are a sign
Of prestige
Wisdom and wealth
Sometimes royalty.
It’s common practice for younger men
To put weights on their balls
To get the desired effect.
It’s not about the size of your penis
But how low your balls go.
That last part is not true.
My balls just made that up.
Just Call Me Joe
Joe Cardarelli was the one that got me started.
Blame him.
Grizzly bear poet
With his black and white hair and beard.
“Just call me Joe”
He said.
I didn’t know it until later
But he was a little off.
He would’ve had to have been
To convince me to take his poetry class
In college.
I didn’t know dick about poetry.
But there I was
In his class
For not just one year
But several
Until I graduated.
My stuff was real dark
With a biting black sense of humor.
Ironic
Considering
That whenever possible
His class was conducted outside
In the grass.
In the sunshine.
Peace, love and happiness.
Sometimes wine was poured
Or a beer was opened.
Cigarettes were burned
Down to their filters.
“Just call me Joe”
Had a lean to
In the woods
Somewhere
In Bumfuck, Maine.
It had an outhouse.
He would constantly
Tell us
How much he liked to stay up there.
NOBODY else around.
He talked about it as he would a lover.
I laid back in the lazy sun
Eyes closed
From the mandatory
‘Pre-class’ joint
And listened to others
Picked by Joe
Read their
Poems.
We were a motley crew.
Through the orange flesh
Of my eyelids
I could picture Joe
“Just call me Joe”
Bypassing
The wooden shithouse
Pissing stoically
Amidst
The Spruce, Balsam
Fir and Hemlock.
Plumes of hot breath
Coming out of him
As he pissed undisturbed
Thinking of nothing else
Except the beauty and simple peace
Around him
While
Words and poetry
Tumbled
Through
His grizzly bear brain.
Joe Cardarelli was the one that got me started.
Blame him.
Grizzly bear poet
With his black and white hair and beard.
“Just call me Joe”
He said.
I didn’t know it until later
But he was a little off.
He would’ve had to have been
To convince me to take his poetry class
In college.
I didn’t know dick about poetry.
But there I was
In his class
For not just one year
But several
Until I graduated.
My stuff was real dark
With a biting black sense of humor.
Ironic
Considering
That whenever possible
His class was conducted outside
In the grass.
In the sunshine.
Peace, love and happiness.
Sometimes wine was poured
Or a beer was opened.
Cigarettes were burned
Down to their filters.
“Just call me Joe”
Had a lean to
In the woods
Somewhere
In Bumfuck, Maine.
It had an outhouse.
He would constantly
Tell us
How much he liked to stay up there.
NOBODY else around.
He talked about it as he would a lover.
I laid back in the lazy sun
Eyes closed
From the mandatory
‘Pre-class’ joint
And listened to others
Picked by Joe
Read their
Poems.
We were a motley crew.
Through the orange flesh
Of my eyelids
I could picture Joe
“Just call me Joe”
Bypassing
The wooden shithouse
Pissing stoically
Amidst
The Spruce, Balsam
Fir and Hemlock.
Plumes of hot breath
Coming out of him
As he pissed undisturbed
Thinking of nothing else
Except the beauty and simple peace
Around him
While
Words and poetry
Tumbled
Through
His grizzly bear brain.
Ants
The ants are out in magnitude
Marching in armies
En masse.
They all have their orders and directives
And follow them to the minute
Until they meet an obstacle
Of which they overcome
And then it’s back to business
As usual.
It’s fascinating
To take the time
To watch the ants
Perform their different tasks.
They march back and forth
In a continual line of traffic.
Empty going South
Carrying payload going North.
They don’t stop for anything
Shitting as they proceed along the way.
But the janitor ants keep things clean
And roll the tiny pieces of fecal matter
Into a distinct shape
Forming a question mark.
A message to the gods above.
The ants are out in magnitude
Marching in armies
En masse.
They all have their orders and directives
And follow them to the minute
Until they meet an obstacle
Of which they overcome
And then it’s back to business
As usual.
It’s fascinating
To take the time
To watch the ants
Perform their different tasks.
They march back and forth
In a continual line of traffic.
Empty going South
Carrying payload going North.
They don’t stop for anything
Shitting as they proceed along the way.
But the janitor ants keep things clean
And roll the tiny pieces of fecal matter
Into a distinct shape
Forming a question mark.
A message to the gods above.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Punk Stupid
Part One: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes
It was a sunny early afternoon
In late May.
A Saturday.
The kind of pleasant Saturday
That was slow to pass
Allowing young boys
To realize
Too much time
Was at their fingertips.
I had ridden my bike to
Gardiner Athletic Fields
And met some friends there
Proudly unveiling the fact
That I had some smoke bombs.
The place was packed.
It was the height of baseball season.
Always the comedian
I thought it would be hilarious
To throw a smoke bomb
Into somebody’s car
And create some panic.
Imagine smoke billowing out of someone’s car?!!!
That would be
“Awesome!”
I lit the fuse and threw it
Into some faceless window.
Everybody left their window’s open back then.
I wasn’t particular.
I rode away sniggering to myself
To watch the action
From a distance.
My friends did the same
Focused on the car
Amongst cars.
Nothing happened.
There was no smoke.
I knew I lit the bitch.
After a few minutes
I was like
“What the fuck”!
I rode back to the vehicle
To see what had happened.
What was up
Was that the fuse made contact
With the vinyl of the back seat
Causing it to melt away
Spreading quickly
As flames
Started to fan up the rear cushion.
There was no smoke...
There was fire!
In horror
I quickly rode away
Hoping to not get caught
As yet
Another part of my innocence
Drowned a fiery death
Stuck melting on the back seat
Of someone’s
Boring suburban car.
Part Two: The End Of Television
You had me at
“Motherfucker!”
But the TV was already raised
In locked arms
Up above my head
Atop the Mount Royal Bridge
Over the Northbound lanes
Of North Avenue
And as I heard
“What the fuck are you doing?”
The TV had already started on it’s journey
Over the concrete rail
Spinning
No longer plugged in
Showing grainy imagery
Of game shows and soap operas
Anchor News and sitcoms.
No.
The screen was grey and blank
As it fell heavily
In the city night
Electrical cord trailing
Like a useless parachute
Unopened.
The hippie
Was beside himself
Having a panic attack
As the TV exploded
And bulbs burst
Glass shattering
Plastic
Caving in.
He was crying
As a car swerved to miss
The remains
Illuminated by a flickering
Street lamp
Wheels tapping over pieces
Of television
Broadcast over the pavement.
I told him to
“Relax”
That I would go and clean it up
But I don’t think he ever got over it.
I didn’t watch much TV.
Didn’t care for it.
I was into action.
Doing stuff.
TV bored me.
It made people inanimate
And dull as well.
But I watched TV that night
With a hippie dude screaming
Raving and unhinged
Next to me.
Totally out of character for him
Wishing he was at home
Stoned
Watching
Don Kirschner’s Rock Concert
Or
The Mutual Of Omaha’s
Wild Kingdom.
For me.
It was the best television
That I had ever seen.
Part Three: Post Industrial Art Geurilla Tactics
It’s not a cereal.
It was a way of living
For years
For myself and several of my closest friends.
The yellow and black metal signs were there
But we never thought of it as
‘Trespassing’.
The ghettos
Abandoned buildings
Ravaged piers
Forgotton industrial complexes
Train tunnels
Empty breweries
And factories
Called to us
From Brooklyn
Baltimore
DC
Bethlehem and Pittsburgh.
The dirtier
More dangerous
The better.
We were on a mission
For imagery
Experience
And supplies
Most of them extremely heavy metal.
Giant wrenches and gears
Were covertly lugged to a spot
Where later they would be picked up
By a car with it’s headlights
Turned off.
We didn’t see it as stealing.
I mean
They weren’t being used anymore.
So
This one time I got caught.
Actually
We got caught.
This girl and I.
I took her into this one stellar
Abandoned factory
That I would frequent
Because it was easy to get to.
I found a way to get in
Down by the polluted stream in back
Through the dark, damp metallic smelling basement.
We made our way to the upper floors
And were exploring
When I heard a helicopter
Keep hovering around the building.
I had noticed it subliminally for a few minutes
Not thinking anything
But then I paid attention to it
And wondered what was going on.
I looked out the windows
And said to her
“Something must be going down outside”.
“Let’s go check it out”.
We made our way back
And as we were exiting the way that we came in
I heard
“Freeze!!! Don’t move or I swear I’ll pop a cap in your ass!”
I was like
“Holy shit! Take it easy. We weren’t doing anything!”
I looked up to see him shaking
Holding his gun with both hands
Pointed directly at me.
“You got someone else in there?”
“Yes. A girl!”
“Bring her out here then! No moves!”
Now
I must have looked strange enough.
A tall skinny punk
With a shaved head
Earrings
Chrome belts
Doc Martin’s
Rings
Leather jacket
But when she came out
In her wild clothes
Colored mohawk
Short skirt
And stockings
He was on the radio
Calling for backup.
The SWAT Team moved in.
We were cuffed and separated.
They found my butterfly knife in my pocket
And one cop was threatening me with it
Spinning it around on his fingers.
“What you doing with this punk? Do you even know how to use it?”
He said as he flicked it in front of my face.
I spent the next twenty hours in the city jail
Filled to overflowing throughout the night.
I was paired with a crazy
Psychopath
And couldn’t sleep well.
I tried everyone
With my one phone call.
By everyone
I mean my parents.
Nobody picked up.
Finally
I got a hold of a friend Riley
Who posted bail for me
And I was set loose
Sometime
The next day
To find out that they released
The girl the day before
On her own accord.
Hilarious.
I was told to turn it down
When I had to appear in court
And I did
Somewhat.
I brought in photos of my sculptures
And examples of my paintings
Explaining my reasons
For trespassing on abandoned property.
Me
A stupid punk
Explaining my artwork
To a courtroom
Instead of a classroom.
How could they take me seriously.
Part Four: Love Your Mother Well (a)
There was the time
Where I got busted
For shoplifting
At Rockaway Sales Department Store.
Security nabbed me in the parking lot.
I was busted with a bag
Of records and cassettes.
What was I thinking?
You’re right.
I wasn’t.
And they held me in a piss yellow room
With throw away office furniture
And the smell of burned coffee.
They kept ‘mock cop’ threatening me
Telling me
That a punk like myself was going to jail.
I, myself, the shoplifter
Was gonna get it up the ass
For sure!
They had me call my mom
On their phone that smelled of bad breath
And cigarettes.
They relished my discomfort
As my mom answered the phone
And I told her what had happened
And that she needed to come up
And speak with them.
It should’ve taken her fifteen minutes
But it crawled like hours.
I held it together that whole time.
Until I saw her enter through the door
With tears on her face
And I broke down
Right there
On the spot
In front of the
‘Mock cops’
And cried
Honestly.
Love Your Mother Well (b)
“What are these?”
My mother asked me
Standing over me
Holding a bag of quaaludes
That I had forgotten
To take out of my pants pocket
Before I put them in the laundry.
The dryer was going
Buzzing and making noise.
I was laid back in a bean bag chair
The TV going.
Damn.
There were a hundred of those in that bag.
Either way
I was sure they were gone.
I was so pissed
At my stupidity.
I made up some elaborate lie
About
That I was holding them
For a guy at work
So he wouldn’t get in trouble
While he went in for a meeting
With the boss
And I had completely forgotten about them.
Total bullshit.
Over the top bullshit.
Good as down the toilet.
If she didn’t believe me
She didn’t let on.
Perhaps she felt safer just confiscating my drugs
Than admitting to herself that her son
Was taking them.
It wouldn’t be the first time
That I lied to my mom.
I had no problem lying to my dad.
He could be a real bastard
Inflicting physical pain
With a leather strap
At the drop of a pair of pants.
Usually mine.
But my mom was soft, kind, domestic
Nurturing.
I was her first born
And she was on my side
Quite often.
Maybe she didn’t want to know the truth
And that’s probably fact
But
She really didn’t deserve dishonesty.
Part Five: Insomnia Or The Devil At Large
Dave
You fuckin’ crack head.
You were a speed freak truck driver
And you lived
By their rules.
Which weren’t any.
I had sex with your stripper pole girl friend
Because you were too fucked up to.
She wanted attention
From somebody.
She was a complete dolt
Right out of a porn video.
She was cute though
Kinky blonde hair
Dramatic make up
Tight little body.
She loved sex
But other than that
It was hard to take her gum popping
Squealing
Giddy
Air headedness.
I lived right across the street
From the two of you.
She was a trick and a half!
And I always got nervous
Thinking about
That crack handy magnum
That used to sit right out in the open
When I would go over to visit you.
The rest of your arsenal that I knew of was hidden away.
I looked you right in your eyes and told you
That nothing was
“Going on”
Saving my ass
Because I didn’t want
A bullet
From some sleepless
Crack demented zombie
In the back of my head
When I wasn’t paying attention.
I saved her ass too.
You were all tweaky anyway
And I knew that you beat her.
I saw the blueish jellyfish bruises
Under her pale white skin
And sometimes she cried
And I would feel bad
But I didn’t really want to get
Involved that deeply.
There was nothing ‘deep’ about her.
The blue lights of cop cars
Were seen flashing on the ceiling
In my bedroom
On several occassions
Way before they came and arrested you for good
Emptying the house
And your girl moved
Back in with her parents.
I found out later
That she was the one
Who called the cops on you.
Love hurts
Doesn’t it.
Part Six: The Resurrection Of The Kracken (magna cum laude)
Finale
Do you remember the time
When you and I were children
At the playground.
This was before we had dreams.
It was before we had ambitions and disappointments.
We were free
Until our moms called us for dinner.
We would run around
And chase each other
Until we were red, sweaty and out of breath.
I would push us on the Merry Go Round
My feet running as fast as they could
And then I would jump on
And we would all hold on really hard
And hang over the sides
Letting the centrifigal force work it’s magic
Spinning around fast
Looking up at the clear blue sky and clouds
Shuttering by amongst the trees.
I would push you on the swings
Running underneath you
Giving you a huge advantage
While I got on the swing next to you
And pumped until I caught up to you
And then we would join our feet together
And swing in unison.
We would laugh so much
And tell each other secrets.
We would climb up those tall trees
Just to see how far we could see.
There was a whole world before us.
And now that I’ve grown much taller
Those trees don’t seem that high anymore.
They’ve taken down the giant metal slide.
Liability hazard.
I like risks.
I like running around
Until I’m flushed red and panting
Feeling my lungs breathe in
This magical mystery of life.
Part One: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes
It was a sunny early afternoon
In late May.
A Saturday.
The kind of pleasant Saturday
That was slow to pass
Allowing young boys
To realize
Too much time
Was at their fingertips.
I had ridden my bike to
Gardiner Athletic Fields
And met some friends there
Proudly unveiling the fact
That I had some smoke bombs.
The place was packed.
It was the height of baseball season.
Always the comedian
I thought it would be hilarious
To throw a smoke bomb
Into somebody’s car
And create some panic.
Imagine smoke billowing out of someone’s car?!!!
That would be
“Awesome!”
I lit the fuse and threw it
Into some faceless window.
Everybody left their window’s open back then.
I wasn’t particular.
I rode away sniggering to myself
To watch the action
From a distance.
My friends did the same
Focused on the car
Amongst cars.
Nothing happened.
There was no smoke.
I knew I lit the bitch.
After a few minutes
I was like
“What the fuck”!
I rode back to the vehicle
To see what had happened.
What was up
Was that the fuse made contact
With the vinyl of the back seat
Causing it to melt away
Spreading quickly
As flames
Started to fan up the rear cushion.
There was no smoke...
There was fire!
In horror
I quickly rode away
Hoping to not get caught
As yet
Another part of my innocence
Drowned a fiery death
Stuck melting on the back seat
Of someone’s
Boring suburban car.
Part Two: The End Of Television
You had me at
“Motherfucker!”
But the TV was already raised
In locked arms
Up above my head
Atop the Mount Royal Bridge
Over the Northbound lanes
Of North Avenue
And as I heard
“What the fuck are you doing?”
The TV had already started on it’s journey
Over the concrete rail
Spinning
No longer plugged in
Showing grainy imagery
Of game shows and soap operas
Anchor News and sitcoms.
No.
The screen was grey and blank
As it fell heavily
In the city night
Electrical cord trailing
Like a useless parachute
Unopened.
The hippie
Was beside himself
Having a panic attack
As the TV exploded
And bulbs burst
Glass shattering
Plastic
Caving in.
He was crying
As a car swerved to miss
The remains
Illuminated by a flickering
Street lamp
Wheels tapping over pieces
Of television
Broadcast over the pavement.
I told him to
“Relax”
That I would go and clean it up
But I don’t think he ever got over it.
I didn’t watch much TV.
Didn’t care for it.
I was into action.
Doing stuff.
TV bored me.
It made people inanimate
And dull as well.
But I watched TV that night
With a hippie dude screaming
Raving and unhinged
Next to me.
Totally out of character for him
Wishing he was at home
Stoned
Watching
Don Kirschner’s Rock Concert
Or
The Mutual Of Omaha’s
Wild Kingdom.
For me.
It was the best television
That I had ever seen.
Part Three: Post Industrial Art Geurilla Tactics
It’s not a cereal.
It was a way of living
For years
For myself and several of my closest friends.
The yellow and black metal signs were there
But we never thought of it as
‘Trespassing’.
The ghettos
Abandoned buildings
Ravaged piers
Forgotton industrial complexes
Train tunnels
Empty breweries
And factories
Called to us
From Brooklyn
Baltimore
DC
Bethlehem and Pittsburgh.
The dirtier
More dangerous
The better.
We were on a mission
For imagery
Experience
And supplies
Most of them extremely heavy metal.
Giant wrenches and gears
Were covertly lugged to a spot
Where later they would be picked up
By a car with it’s headlights
Turned off.
We didn’t see it as stealing.
I mean
They weren’t being used anymore.
So
This one time I got caught.
Actually
We got caught.
This girl and I.
I took her into this one stellar
Abandoned factory
That I would frequent
Because it was easy to get to.
I found a way to get in
Down by the polluted stream in back
Through the dark, damp metallic smelling basement.
We made our way to the upper floors
And were exploring
When I heard a helicopter
Keep hovering around the building.
I had noticed it subliminally for a few minutes
Not thinking anything
But then I paid attention to it
And wondered what was going on.
I looked out the windows
And said to her
“Something must be going down outside”.
“Let’s go check it out”.
We made our way back
And as we were exiting the way that we came in
I heard
“Freeze!!! Don’t move or I swear I’ll pop a cap in your ass!”
I was like
“Holy shit! Take it easy. We weren’t doing anything!”
I looked up to see him shaking
Holding his gun with both hands
Pointed directly at me.
“You got someone else in there?”
“Yes. A girl!”
“Bring her out here then! No moves!”
Now
I must have looked strange enough.
A tall skinny punk
With a shaved head
Earrings
Chrome belts
Doc Martin’s
Rings
Leather jacket
But when she came out
In her wild clothes
Colored mohawk
Short skirt
And stockings
He was on the radio
Calling for backup.
The SWAT Team moved in.
We were cuffed and separated.
They found my butterfly knife in my pocket
And one cop was threatening me with it
Spinning it around on his fingers.
“What you doing with this punk? Do you even know how to use it?”
He said as he flicked it in front of my face.
I spent the next twenty hours in the city jail
Filled to overflowing throughout the night.
I was paired with a crazy
Psychopath
And couldn’t sleep well.
I tried everyone
With my one phone call.
By everyone
I mean my parents.
Nobody picked up.
Finally
I got a hold of a friend Riley
Who posted bail for me
And I was set loose
Sometime
The next day
To find out that they released
The girl the day before
On her own accord.
Hilarious.
I was told to turn it down
When I had to appear in court
And I did
Somewhat.
I brought in photos of my sculptures
And examples of my paintings
Explaining my reasons
For trespassing on abandoned property.
Me
A stupid punk
Explaining my artwork
To a courtroom
Instead of a classroom.
How could they take me seriously.
Part Four: Love Your Mother Well (a)
There was the time
Where I got busted
For shoplifting
At Rockaway Sales Department Store.
Security nabbed me in the parking lot.
I was busted with a bag
Of records and cassettes.
What was I thinking?
You’re right.
I wasn’t.
And they held me in a piss yellow room
With throw away office furniture
And the smell of burned coffee.
They kept ‘mock cop’ threatening me
Telling me
That a punk like myself was going to jail.
I, myself, the shoplifter
Was gonna get it up the ass
For sure!
They had me call my mom
On their phone that smelled of bad breath
And cigarettes.
They relished my discomfort
As my mom answered the phone
And I told her what had happened
And that she needed to come up
And speak with them.
It should’ve taken her fifteen minutes
But it crawled like hours.
I held it together that whole time.
Until I saw her enter through the door
With tears on her face
And I broke down
Right there
On the spot
In front of the
‘Mock cops’
And cried
Honestly.
Love Your Mother Well (b)
“What are these?”
My mother asked me
Standing over me
Holding a bag of quaaludes
That I had forgotten
To take out of my pants pocket
Before I put them in the laundry.
The dryer was going
Buzzing and making noise.
I was laid back in a bean bag chair
The TV going.
Damn.
There were a hundred of those in that bag.
Either way
I was sure they were gone.
I was so pissed
At my stupidity.
I made up some elaborate lie
About
That I was holding them
For a guy at work
So he wouldn’t get in trouble
While he went in for a meeting
With the boss
And I had completely forgotten about them.
Total bullshit.
Over the top bullshit.
Good as down the toilet.
If she didn’t believe me
She didn’t let on.
Perhaps she felt safer just confiscating my drugs
Than admitting to herself that her son
Was taking them.
It wouldn’t be the first time
That I lied to my mom.
I had no problem lying to my dad.
He could be a real bastard
Inflicting physical pain
With a leather strap
At the drop of a pair of pants.
Usually mine.
But my mom was soft, kind, domestic
Nurturing.
I was her first born
And she was on my side
Quite often.
Maybe she didn’t want to know the truth
And that’s probably fact
But
She really didn’t deserve dishonesty.
Part Five: Insomnia Or The Devil At Large
Dave
You fuckin’ crack head.
You were a speed freak truck driver
And you lived
By their rules.
Which weren’t any.
I had sex with your stripper pole girl friend
Because you were too fucked up to.
She wanted attention
From somebody.
She was a complete dolt
Right out of a porn video.
She was cute though
Kinky blonde hair
Dramatic make up
Tight little body.
She loved sex
But other than that
It was hard to take her gum popping
Squealing
Giddy
Air headedness.
I lived right across the street
From the two of you.
She was a trick and a half!
And I always got nervous
Thinking about
That crack handy magnum
That used to sit right out in the open
When I would go over to visit you.
The rest of your arsenal that I knew of was hidden away.
I looked you right in your eyes and told you
That nothing was
“Going on”
Saving my ass
Because I didn’t want
A bullet
From some sleepless
Crack demented zombie
In the back of my head
When I wasn’t paying attention.
I saved her ass too.
You were all tweaky anyway
And I knew that you beat her.
I saw the blueish jellyfish bruises
Under her pale white skin
And sometimes she cried
And I would feel bad
But I didn’t really want to get
Involved that deeply.
There was nothing ‘deep’ about her.
The blue lights of cop cars
Were seen flashing on the ceiling
In my bedroom
On several occassions
Way before they came and arrested you for good
Emptying the house
And your girl moved
Back in with her parents.
I found out later
That she was the one
Who called the cops on you.
Love hurts
Doesn’t it.
Part Six: The Resurrection Of The Kracken (magna cum laude)
Finale
Do you remember the time
When you and I were children
At the playground.
This was before we had dreams.
It was before we had ambitions and disappointments.
We were free
Until our moms called us for dinner.
We would run around
And chase each other
Until we were red, sweaty and out of breath.
I would push us on the Merry Go Round
My feet running as fast as they could
And then I would jump on
And we would all hold on really hard
And hang over the sides
Letting the centrifigal force work it’s magic
Spinning around fast
Looking up at the clear blue sky and clouds
Shuttering by amongst the trees.
I would push you on the swings
Running underneath you
Giving you a huge advantage
While I got on the swing next to you
And pumped until I caught up to you
And then we would join our feet together
And swing in unison.
We would laugh so much
And tell each other secrets.
We would climb up those tall trees
Just to see how far we could see.
There was a whole world before us.
And now that I’ve grown much taller
Those trees don’t seem that high anymore.
They’ve taken down the giant metal slide.
Liability hazard.
I like risks.
I like running around
Until I’m flushed red and panting
Feeling my lungs breathe in
This magical mystery of life.
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