Apocalypse

When the apocalypse

Does come

The beginning of the end

And the generators 

Sputter out their 

Last breath of fossil fuel

The asylums will reopen their doors

When the big screens

Go dark

And there is no more

Football or hockey

Judge Judy

Reality TV

Or soft-skull commercials

To entertain 

Their soapy 

Lathery

Living death 

Existence.

Galvanized Trash Cans

“You should build a little shed or buy one of those plastic rubbish bins from Home Depot

  to hide your trash in.”

She said.

“I don’t wanna hide my trash.”

I replied.

“I like looking at the metal cans...I’m a holdout...nobody else around here has metal cans...

  they all have plastic.   I like the way they sound when I drag them on the concrete and 

  clunk them down at the curb...metal cans are a lost art...reminds me of when I lived in the

  city...except they had holes bored through them and were linked together by a length of 

  heavy guage steel link chain, bolted to the wall. The same kinda chain all of the bikers 

  used, wrapping it around the frame and rims, only to have some pro come along and ice

  their lock and hit it with a hammer, speeding away on their bike moments later.

“The same thing with the trash cans...if they weren’t locked down, they’d disappear. I don’t

  know what metal was worth in those days. People were stealing working pipes just to get

  high. They’d sneak in the basement and turn off the water and heat and steal whatever 

  they could. We’d take turns watching. If we knew the fuckers were down there, we’d get

  the whole building marching down into the basement with baseball bats. It was war.”

“Imagine that.”

I told her.

“Someone fighting off the rats to steal the trash cans?”

“The chains, the address painted sloppily on the side of each can in red paint...it didn’t

  matter! If you weren’t looking, those cans disappeared!’

“I don’t hafta paint no numbers or addresses on those cans. Out here, nobody wants

  metal cans. They prefer plastic.”

“Imagine that?”

I asked her.

“Some poor sonuvabitch stealing trash cans.”

“Yet, it was an epidemic.”

“Nah.”

I finally answered her.

“I like the to look at my trash cans there by the side of the house.”

“I like the clatter that they make early in the morning when the crew comes by. Scattering

  dark silent birds into the 5AM orange sky.”

Perfect

She liked me

Because I was a bad boy

Until I jumped on the hood

Of her shiny red Trans Am

Shouting that I loved her.

I thought she was perfect.

She was flawlessly beautiful.

Pristine olive skin

Brown eyes

Sturdy facial contours

Manicured hair and nails

High end lingerie

Purchased from a boutique

Worn over a supple

Hewed body

Maintained at a gym.

She smelled wonderful

Like a mysterious high end call girl

From the Upper East Side.

But that love ended

Ubruptly

That night.

Me 

The bad boy

In leather and chrome

And heavy boots

Professing his heartfelt feelings

For her ideal

On the hood of her car

In a parking lot

In Hoboken.

I didn’t see her again

Until we were in court.

Me 

Laughingly 

Representing myself.

Her with her well-appointed lawyer

Suing me for the small

Impression

That I left on the hood of her car.

She

Sat there twenty feet away.

No love for me whatsoever.

We were strangers then.

She

Still a perfectly maintained

Bitch.

She was probably fucking her lawyer

I thought.

She never paid for anything.

I knew firsthand.

And

Me

Still the bad boy

Telling the judge

That

“Yes.”

“I did it.”

And

That

“This bitch sitting in front of you will never know anything about love.”

I said it with conviction.

More for her

Than the judge.

Neither gave a shit.

I had to write out a check

Right there

In the courtroom

For damage

Including court costs

And lawyers fees.

And I’m sure it bounced

At least once.

Wild Animals In The House

I’ve had two bats

At least four birds

One raccoon

Four or five possums...

Some mice.

A few people attending

Parties

Who got out of control

That I would consider animals

And several banshee

Shit-crazy women.

The small ones

I could catch with a towel

And usher them out the door

Letting them escape

Outside

To what they knew.

I think they were thankful.

The mice

Not so

As I used traditional

Kill traps.

SNAP!

Some animals I had to buy

Vermin friendly wire cage traps

Setting bait

And when I caught them

I’d drive their smelly ass

Miles away to the wilderness

And let them be somebody else’s

Problem.

And then there were those...

The hardest to eradicate.

Those ones were the biggest 

Pain in the ass

Took the longest

And cost me a hell of a lot of money.

Supermarket

I met my current local literary mentor

Guru

Adversary

In the Giant Supermarket 

For the second week in a row.

What are the chances?

We never meet

Except for our monthly readings.

We grabbed shiny chrome carts

At the same time

In the giant Giant vestibule.

“How’s it going?  This is becoming a habit.”

I said.

“You look better than when I last saw you.”

Was his reply.

True.

But unnerving.

In my mind I looked pretty good the last time.

Better even.

I wheeled my cart

Into the flourescent belly of the beast.

“Watcha say we fill our carts and meet in aisle 7 in fifteen minutes and play chicken?”

“You’re on” he said smirking.

Five minutes went by.

He finds me in aisle 3

Telling me that he thought 

The supermarket was the greatest place to look at women.

“Everywhere is a great place to look at women.”

I told him.

What I said was truth.

But what he told me

Was also.

The supermarket was a great place

To look at women.

So I really wanted to meet him

In aisle 7

And play chicken 

With our full carts

Smashing

Spilling produce

Dry goods

Potato Chips

Cellophane wrapped meats

Toilet paper

Pet food

Baked goods

Everywhere.

The crazy thing

Is that in another time

Like twenty years ago...

I’m sure we would’ve both done it.

We would’ve ran full steam

At each other

Alcohol on our breath.

Locomotive.

11:00 o’clock at night.

Commited.

Smashing in a great steel metallic thunder

Groceries spilling everywhere

With us laughing

Histerically

In aisle 7

Carts on their side

Us on the polished floor

Not even giving it a thought

As the night manager kicked us out

While we licked our surface wounds

Telling us to never come back again.

“Fuck you!”

“We’ll take our business elsewhere!”

We both yell at him

Hysterical.

Instead...

I caught him.

Literary guy

Out of the corner of my eye

In aisle 6

His cart idle

While he perused current cheap gossip magazines

No doubt looking at women...

And I proceeded 

To the

All too familiar 

Altar

Of the

Self-Checkout line

Knowing that the aisle 7

Chicken-dare crash

Wasn’t going to happen.

Once more checking out

With a debit card

To the elder

More mature

More responsible 

Life

That I now existed in.

In a perfect karma

I would hear the words

Announced over the speakers...

“Clean up in aisle 7!”

Before we were put out on the curb.

Bum

I was within the red velvet ropes

Waiting to get into a club

Down in Chelsea.

I saw him a half a block away.

Homeless and hobbling

With all of his gear.

“He’s coming for me.”

I told my friends.

“Watch.”

“I’m telling you that he’s coming for me.”

I watched

My friends watched 

As he strode directly up to me

With purpose

Approaching nobody else.

“Son...Where have you been?  I’ve been looking all over for you.  I’m hungry.  Please

  buy me something to eat.”

I’ve had weirder things happen.

But I called this one

And I felt triumphant

Like I should be allowed

To go to the front of the line.

That didn’t happen.

I gave him five bucks

And told him I wasn’t his son

“That he wasn’t fooling anybody.  Go get something to eat.”

I waited in line

With everybody else.

My importance only noticed by a homeless man

And not the bouncer
At the front of the line.

Wing Dam

It’s the nicest day

Of the year

So far

And I have a nice

Buzz on

As I walk out

Upon the concrete

Abutment

Angled 

In crooked fashion

To the center of the rushing river.

The water is higher and faster

Since the thunderstorms

Made the valley

Their home

The last few days.

I walk past

A whole striper

Gurnied out

On the pebbled pavement

Cooking in the sun.

Only his eyes are missing.

Excerbated neatly.

The skin is dry.

His demise 

Was recent.

The sockets of his pupils

Still pink

And the body’s flesh

Firm

Neither bloated

Nor sunken.

There were no flies yet.

I lied down 

At the very end

Of the stone...

At the spine of the river.

I felt the same warm sun

As he once did

Baking my still intact eyes

Wondering

What the last thoughts

Of a wayward striper

Would be.

Knowing that he had 

Fucked up big time

Landing on the wing dam

Gasping his last breath.

The birds swooping down

Quickly

In those final moments

Being the last thing

He saw.

He really fucked up this time.

I fell into a solar-drenched stupor

The water at a summer high mark

Rushing around me

It’s fierce noise

Calming

The animal

Inside.

Black Butterfly

You flew singular and black

Amongst the endless acres 

Within the overgrown sunwashed pale concrete

Of a long ago abandoned

Railroad yard.

Trees and shrubs had grown

To 15 feet high

Within the 2 inch cracks

Of weather beaten 

Pebbled pavement

Obscuring a once desolate

Vacant view.

Greenery suffocating

Miles of abandoned railroad ties.

Steel lifted for it’s value

Leaving precisely measured 

Worthless wood 

Bare.

The velvet black of your wings

Was easy to follow

Against such a harsh contrast

Of man-made colors

And the natural hues of greens.

Yellows.

Wheat sheaf-like white

Of the dormant or dead.

The pale summer blue

Of sky

When you rarely flew high enough

Preferring to stay low to the ground.

You led me to the abandoned architecture

Of a water tower

And I was thankful.

Almost immediately

The sky to the west 

Grew dark

And I saw lightening.

It was still clear here.

Still blue.

Black wings fluttered.

You made me feel safe

And I didn’t run.

Belmar

So

I'm at the beach

Laying on a blanket.

Beautiful women everywhere. 

360 degrees 

Of feminine stomach

Ass

And thighs.

At the beach

I don’t look at faces so much

Or listen to their

Conversations.

That would kill the illusion.

I just observe

Like I am in a bird sanctuary

Or an animal preserve

Or sitting in a modern art museum.

I revel in all of the details

That makes each woman unique

And original.

The colorful plumage

The stoic gate

The palette and brushstroke

That captures the curve of a muscle.

There's a cutie with a booty

Laying out right in front of me. 

Alternatively

But no less appreciative

A black guy bounces by 

With his crew 

And I hear him say 

"Oh shit!”

“I'd roll my weed on dat ass!".

I heard poetry in his critique.

The Edison ‘Fireside’ Two-Speed Cylinder Phonograph

He lived in a rent-controlled

One bedroom apartment

On the fifth floor

Of a six floor walk-up

At 346 East 20th Street

Between 2nd and 1st.

Across from the chainlinked

Pale-washed concrete

Of the basketball courts

Loitering next to 

Simon Baruch Jr. High.

It was the second tallest

Apartment building on the block.

It would take him

A good fifteen minutes

To journey 

From the noise of the street

Up the hard

Cold stone steps

Of the stairwell...

His leather soles echoing

In the building’s common space...

Until he arrived at the familiar door of apartment 5B...

Taking pause

To catch his breath upon the way.

He was 76 years old.

As he put the keys into the locks

He could hear the low murmers

Of his pets inside.

When he stepped through the door

To the hallway’s interior

Geschenk and Kleine Scheiber

Would weave themselves

Inbetween his polished shoes

Purring.

“Daddy’s home”

He would announce.

The apartment was clean

And simple.

Sparcely furnished.

Meticulous

Like his shoes

Which he had polished

Twice a week

By his regular guy

In the Union Square subway station.

The cats laced their way

Inbetween his feet

As he made his trek

Into the living area

Which was furnished with a sofa

A floor lamp

A chair

And his beloved phonograph.

It was the one thing

That he carried

Through his later lifetime.

On the streets

Up stairs

Through relationships.

He listened to it every morning

With stove-brewed coffee

And every night

With a glass of wine.

He didn’t own a television.

Never felt the need to.

He had his Edison ‘Fireside’ cylinder phonograph

To entertain him.

His was from 1905.

He didn’t buy it then.

He purchased it in the 1940’s

At a pawn shop

In Time’s Square

With a few cylinders

And was hooked ever since.

He poured a glass of wine.

German.

Trollinger.

Just like the phonograph...

It was a habit of his.

A rich red.

He took the glass

And sat down in the chair

Next to the machine.

Kleine Scheiber immediately jumped into his lap

Taking her place.

He put his glass

Down on the side table

And picked out a cylinder

From the box by his feet.

He inserted it into the mechanism

Putting the needle

At the end of the suspended wooden horn

Upon the shiny roll

And cranked the handle

On the right side of the box.

When the pressure felt right

He then released the switch in front

Letting the needle begin it’s path

Left to right for approximately two minutes.

The blue wooden horn

Echoed with such a warm well-rehearsed sound.

He raised his glass

And gave a toast

As he always did...

Taking a sip of wine from the motherland.

He tilted his head back

In the chair

Rubbing the content Kleine Scheiber around the neck.

She purred loudly

And he could hear it over the music.

She was languid

Like he was

Waiting for the music to end.

Feeling his body suddenly move

As he searched

For another recognizable

But wonderous song

From amongst the library

At his feet.

To again fill the air

Of the one bedroom apartment

And the empty basketball courts

Across the street

With a recurrent

Imparted joy

Gratis

To anyone passing by

Taking the time 

To notice

And listen.

My Lazy Eye

My left eye 

Is sleepy

Lazy

From an incident

With a beer bottle.

Broken green glass

Sliced incision like

Through the white flesh

Of the paper lid

Which required

A trip to the

Emergency Room

Of the city hospital

In the passenger seat

Of my cousin’s car.

A kitchen towel

Filled with ice cubes

Held up

To the soft poached

Accident.

The country fabric weave

Of ducks marching

On a bold blue stripe

Quickly soaked to red

With blood

From my loosened eye.

I got stitches.

They told me

That I came this close...

They held two fingers pinched together...

To loosing my eye altogether.

They didn’t have therapy 

Or recovery

For eyelids back then.

Ever since

My left eye

Moves a little slower.

Hangs 

A little lower.

If you look closely

You can still see 

The scar.

I’ve been told

That I have

“Bedroom Eyes”.

Pfffffft!

I take that with a grain of salt.

Am I wrong

In thinking

That 

Beer bottles

Are the leading cause

Of people

Ending up in the bedroom

In the first place?

Music Box Ballerina

She turns

Rotating

On the axis

Of the balls of her feet

As she rubs moisturizer

Into the skin 

Of her toned 

Well-maintained body.

She revolves

Without hurry

In her own time

Paying no attention to me.

Palms lathered

Smoothing her 

Solid flesh.

She looks up coyly

And catches me watching her.

She knows

I’m unpredictable in so many things.

But when there is music

And a naked woman

Performing in front of me...

I will watch

Until the very end

Forseen.

Until the springs loosen

Of all their tension

And she stops

Suddenly

With the last 

Faltering chimes

Of a soft song.

Phosphorescent Bay

We watched in awe

As if it was the first magic trick

That we had ever seen performed

Live

While the fish swam

Just below the surface

Of the midnight water

Creating black-light rainbows

Rippling out across

The lagoon 

Fading into the twisted roots

Of the mangrove trees

Of Puerto Mosquito.

Sleight of hand

By a 

Master Magician.

Cherry

Pink petals

Fall like snow

In seventy degree weather

In my back yard.

It’s going to be a monster of a storm.

Bar Argument

I stood my ground 

That the Flying Nun

Was indeed a superhero.

She had mystical powers

Enabling her to fly.

She had a costume

And a somewhat secret identity.

She was for the cause

Of ‘Good’ vs ‘Evil’.

Three grown boy nerds

Against 

My three drink idiot self.

Before I left

The Flying Nun

Was deemed a superhero

And three grown boy nerds

Had bought me more drinks

And I was left wondering

Why I gave a fuck

In the first place.

I settled into the victory

Of libations.