Autumn Sun

To take hold of

The last warm rays

Of the early evening sun

Is worth every shiny copper penny

To walk across the street

To the park

Without shadows
Of tall trees

There

And toast in orange-yellow

Heat

In green grass

It’s Autumn

The sun is setting

Lower

And earlier

The freshly washed

Laundry

Back there

Hung on the line

With wooden clothes pins

Only an hour ago

Wishes

It could 

Do the same

As me

Breaking Down Brick Walls (Buddy And Charles) (Baltimore 1988)

I used to bring them donuts

On Sunday mornings.

They lived two doors up

From me.

They were good neighbors.

On Sundays

I’d go to the bakery

Or the farmer’s market

And buy donuts

Or dense bread pudding

From the Austrian baker

Thick with custard

Cinnamon

And raisins.

If any of it made it back home with me

I’d make a visit

To my neighbors.

I was a white punk

Living in a black ghetto

On St. Mary’s Place.

I enjoyed the time

I spent walking up their

Brick steps

In heavy biker boots

Mohawk or shaved head.

Leather

Metal

And denim

Knocking on their door

And yelling

“Buddy!”

“Charles!”

And seeing Buddy’s

Or Charle’s 

Big pearly grin

Through dark skin

As they opened the door

And exclaimed

“Ted!”

Or

“Taaaaaaiiiiiiiiiidddddd!!!”

Followed by haughty

Grounds of the earth

Laughter.

In return

As treaty

They would give me

Hella Soul Food

That they had cooked.

Pig’s tails

Collards

Beans

Fried Chicken

Cabbage and trotters.

I would graciously

Take them home

And later tell them

How good they were.

Lying...

Because 

At the time 

I was a vegetarian

And actually gave all of that food away

To all of my punk rock friends...

Who were appreciative.

And while I might’ve lied 

About that...

I visited Buddie and Charle's 

For the laughs and conversation.

They were two black men

In their sixties living together

For a long time.

They told me they were brothers.

I had a hard time believing that.

I suspected otherwise.

They had two different last names.

But they grew up in the ghetto

And had to make such a story up

As to protect themselves.

I wasn’t going to blow their cover.

Instead

We accepted the lies offered 

To each of us.

And ate donuts

Or bread pudding 

On Sundays

And enjoyed our differences

And the fact

That through

A few brick walls

We could still be friends

And keep secrets.

Good Luck

“Awwwwwww...What a cute dog!”

She exclaimed.

“What kind is he?”

“A Chinese Nazi!”

He replied.

“He’s  smart as hell too...”

“Do you want some good luck?”

He asked her.

“What?...”

“Do you want some good luck?”

He asked her again.

He picked up the small dog

Pulling it into his abdomen

And with his other free hand

He secured

The Chinese Nazi’s 

Small black balls

Between his fingers.

“Go ahead! Rub his balls! They’re good luck!”

“Eeeeewwwwww!!!...”

She said.

“Go ahead. He doesn’t mind.”

He assured her.

“Look how smooth and shiny they are!”

He moved them closer to her.

The mid-day sun reflected 

Off of tight dark grapes.

“Go on.”

I told her.

“It’s no big deal.”

“Noooooooo!!!” 

She said adamantly.

Good romances

Winning lottery tickets

Financial success

Unblemished skin

Fame

Recognition

Health

World travel...

All took wing.

“Hell...I’ll do it!”

I said.

I rubbed the talismans.

At 51 years of age

I’m not one to let

Good luck

Purposely

Elude me.

Truth be told

I could use it more than ever.

I finished

And took my hand away.

The man was right.

The dog didn’t mind at all.

Cicadas (Okanagana Rimosa)

Mid-August

I’m awoken 

To the noise of the annual cicadas

In the morning

Through open 

Screened windows.

Louder than the birds were 

Announcing 

The arrival of spring.

These developed adult wings

Of once silent larval insects

Sing emphatically 

Of the approaching

End of summer.

Their chorus is purposeful 

And tireless

Like the feedback

Distortion

From Hendrix’s guitar

On an overdriven amp

Invoking transition.

Cicada tymbals

High in the trees 

Encourage me

With their electric drone

To sleep longer.

Promising me everything

Is the way I left it

When I fell asleep 

Last night

To gentle rain

And Chet Baker crooning

Almost Blue

From the other side

Of summer.

Banana Seat

We all had Schwinn’s

Back then.

It was the choice bike

And if you didn’t have one

You just weren’t in.

Some were cooler than others.

Some had wide flat back tires.

Some had shifters

Or steering wheel handle bars.

There was an array of 1970’s colors.

But your own 

Was the coolest

And we’d still talk shit about it.

Mine was metallic green.

I had a silver flecked

Sparkling vinyl banana seat

With chrome sissy bars.

I attached playing cards to the spokes

With clothespins

And sounded

Almost

Like Evil Knevil

As I pedaled

At high speed

Towards a homemade repurposed plywood ramp...

Younger prospects

To our group

Involuntarily lay below

In a line

Shaking nervously

Pissing their jeans.

Morgue rule.

Just past the ramp

As I flew over them

Not knowing what would happen

If I didn’t make it.

My bike was metallic green

With a sparkling silver vinyl banana seat.

It had to be pedaled.

In my mind

I made it over 

The Grand Canyon

To fanfare

With each jump

I made.

Engines roaring

From playing cards

Held to metal spokes

With wooden clothespins.

Black ribbons of fresh tire rubber

Peeling for ten feet 

Or more

Across suburban tarmac

Hot from the sun.

2015 Perseid Meteor Shower

I had just arrived back

At home

At 1:00 in the morning

Fully prepared

To watch 

The annual passing

Of archaic meteor fragments

Flare across the night sky.

Some only the size of sand.

First discovered 

In 36 AD.

Tonight 

Would be prime viewing

For there was

No moonlight.

But I just came from a reading

And I’m drunk.

Drunk from words.

Drunk from high proof moonshine.

Drunk from people speaking words

About being drunk.

Drunk.

A man got dressed up

As an elderly woman

And read a recipe 

About

How to bake

A ‘Heavenly Angel Food Cake With A Sinful Cherry Center’.

It was hedonistic

As far as recipes go.

Another writer

Read a story 

About criminal activities 

That took place in a quarry.

It involved bulldozers

And teenage invincibility...

Bad decisions and cigarettes...

Adreneline

And mishaps.

It was very real to me.

I listened on the edge of my seat

And it brought me back 

To my childhood.

A handsome

Well-worn man

Read a poem

About 300 lesbians.

I listened to a proud poet

Talk about his son

Who chased his dream

Since he was six years old

About becoming

An aviator.

I am too drunk from all of this

To stay up now

In hopes

That I’ll see some far off trails

Of the annual fly-by’s and waves

Of Perseids.

They don’t give a shit about me!

They never have.

They have have not given a shit about me

Since 36 AD.

That itself is astonishing.

It might’ve been the perfect night to check them out...

Again.

I’ll try to wake up at five

In the morning.

Astronomists concur

That it should be optimal viewing

Barring cloud cover.

But words from fellow journeymen

Were my meteors

Tonight.

Burning through 

The black sky

On fire.

Infernos

Each one.

Moonshine

Was only

A plus.

Landscape Painter

His brush painted colors

Back onto dead lobsters

And fish

Aviary

And fauna

The dry brittle branches

That no longer bent

To the wind

The world had become

Brown and grey

Gone of pigment

One day

A day he feared 

More than his own death

He would squeeze 

The last paint

From all of his tubes

Remiss

That he could never

Return the color

To the absent leaf of a tree

Or reach 

The blue on the tip of his brush

To touch

The sky

Route 35 (Passenger Seat)

Route 35 is crowded ugly

With heat

Tire stores

Used car dealerships

Liquor outlets

Vacancies

Pool and marine supply

Sleazy hotels and motor lodges

Hard luck

Strip clubs

Psychic readers

Legion halls

Bait and tackle

Abandoned buildings

Body shops and collision repair

Shady places of worship

Trailer parks

Lost dreams

Dirty dilapidated houses

Pressed up against 

This dirty highway

It seems that every car that passes by

The occupants are chain smokers

And drinking Big Gulps

It smells of grease

In 90+ degree heat

And at certain overpasses

Low tide

We pass billboards

Advertising 

Personal injury lawyers

Bankruptcy and divorces

For $180

The fastest route

To paradise

Toll free

Just stoplight

After stoplight

This

The penance to be paid

To get to sand

And cool water

Just get me to the beach

Blue Moon (Full Moon) (2:30 AM)

I am not a scientist

Or whatever

Nor an astrologist

But I’m in my backyard

Cloaked in mineral blue light

Looking through my telescopes

At the full moon

This last night of July

First morning of August

And I can see 

Where the heavy debris

Of a cow 

Trying to jump

Over the moon

Just didn’t make it

Falling short

Creating the

Tycho Crater

Spreading schrapnel

For hundreds of miles

As the impact 

Of solid calcium

Bovine bones

Skull

And thick scarred flesh

Battered lunar bedrock

Fashioning

Mountains 

Furrows

Canyons

Gorges

And dry empty oceans

Radiating

From Ground Zero

Like vericose veins

While

I may not be

Galilei

Kepler

Ptolemy

Or Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi

It’s right there

In the blue lenses

Of telescopes

I am also reminded

How good the first

Ripe peaches

Of summer taste

As I rotate the fruit

On it’s axis

Exposing the nut of the pit

The core

Syrup pouring down my chin

Throwing the center

Deep into the blue night

The earth never trembling

From it’s impact

Cyclist With Cows In Sunset

Coming up on a berm

Just past the 

Mountainview Youth Correctional Facility

Past the waste transfer station

Outside of Annandale

I saw a cyclist

With his bike parked on the side 

Of the road.

He was laying down 

On the shoulder 

In front of his bike

As I pulled up.

He was wearing 

Bright biker gear

Bent down

Laying 

In position

Halfway across the road

With a camera

Taking photos

Of a group of cows

Herded up to a fence

With the sun setting 

Behind him.

I slowed to a stall.

As I passed him

I  knew that 

He was taking a perfect photo.

The sun was hitting the animals

In just the right way.

I thought about

Stopping

And eventually

Turning around

To take 

That perfect photo

With him.

But I knew

That it was

Not fruitful.

For neither him

Nor myself.

He was there first.

He had the balls

To carry a camera

With him

While he was riding a bike

Through 

Back-country roads

And lay down 

In the left lane

To grab that shot.

It was his alone

And he took it.

Nanny’s Organ (Vintage Roxy) (Da Qi)

My grandmother had an electric organ 

In the living room

Of her house

On Wakeman Street

In West Orange, New Jersey.

When I sat on the stool

In front of the instrument

I could look out of the window

And see the giant Weeping Willow tree

That all of her grandchildren

Would monkey-climb on.

The organ itself

Was probably quite

The domestic purchase

At the time

Along with the giant 

Piece of furniture

That was the television.

Perhaps it was a Christmas gift

Some year.

I don’t know.

But

Looking back

I might have to say

It was rather cheap looking.

It was a Roxy.

I’d wager 

That the organ’s cabinet

Was not real wood.

It was mounted

On legs

Of hollow brass tubes

That tapered

To disc feet

With plastic bottoms

Common 

In the late sixties/early seventies.

The single speaker

Also with brass mountings

Was covered in a gold and white

Plastic mesh

Housed in the front-left face

Of the keyboard cabinet.

I don’t recall my Nanny

Ever playing it.

Instead

It became a hiding place

For jelly beans

At Easter...

I can remember

Flicking the switch 

Myself

To turn it on

And watching the red light glow

As an electric hum

Came on

Over the speaker

As the tubes warmed up.

There was a group of buttons 

On the left side

Which were the Major

Minor

And Seventh keys

With about forty keys to the right.

I was a magician

As I sat there 

In the silent moments

Before I started 

Preparing 

For the elaborate tome

That I was about to lay down.

As my fingers

Pressed buttons and keys

I could feel

The electricity tack

Up my arms

Coursing to interstellar

Creative chakras.

Da Qi.

In acuppuncture

It’s called the 

Good Energy.

It’s real electrical currents

Felt when needles

Are placed

In specific critical points

During a session.

This was before 

I had anything 

Like acuppuncture

To compare it to.

And I weaved

And pressed

With urgency.

I lilted

Lifting fingers lightly.

I pressed my whole body

Into the keyboard

And buttons.

A mad scientist.

Creating music

For the end of the world.

I’m sure that it was horrifying

To anyone that heard it.

But in my head

I was a musical genius

Light years

Ahead of his time.

A prodigy.

An idiot savant.

Well before acuppuncture.

Well before 

I would ever hear those words

Or be intelligent

Enough

To understand their meaning.

So

I played on

Riddled with electricity.

Da Qi.

Vermont

“Maybe this is why I fell in love with you!”

I exclaimed.

“Why?  Because my pussy smells so good?”

She giggled from within her closet.

She looked out at me.

A few moments before

She had gotten undressed

And threw her panties

Onto my face

As I lie in bed 

Waiting for her

To pick out her clothes

For work the next day.

“Yeah...”

I answered

From under lace.

“You smell like Vermont...”

“Maple syrup.”

I half-smiled.

“Caramelized sugar and smoke.”

“Damn!  You smell good!”

I inhaled her perfume.

It was true.

She smelled of the Vermont wilderness.

Wood Anemonies

Indian Blanketflowers

Thimbleberries and Moss.

I heard her voice 

Return maple sugary 

From within the closet

Surrounded by shoes and clothes.

“Thank you babee...”

She said.

Ninth Grade Education

It was in ninth grade 

That I got schooled 

In that mystery 

Of unhooking bra straps.

Maybe they’ve gotten easier

Over time.

But back then

It was as complicated

As breaking into Fort Knox.

I had unhooked a few before

But I was a nervous fumbler

Struggling to play it cool.

It was anything but.

It wasn’t until

I befriended these

Two Catholic School girls

That were patient

And adoring

Letting me take my time

To discover

The mystery 

Of these locks.

It was my first time

That I was with two girls 

At once

Also.

They were like best friends.

It was the first time 

That I learned about bisexuality.

They weren’t the most attractive girls in my book.

But, hey,

It was a free education

And I’m better for it.

Buck Full Moon Part Deux (2015)

This full moon 

Is coming 

Like

Peter North.

Prepare to get drenched.

I’m sitting in my back yard now.

There’s cloud cover

But that’s about it.

I’m gonna get drenched.

Buck Full Moon (2015)

THIS!

This nervous bitch of a full moon.

I have to lift my head up

More than halfway to 

Just to see it’s belly.

This moon

Pouring bleach

Over the surrounding stars.

I smell trouble.

Get out your rubbers.

The best pot you have.

Crack that rare scotch you have

Hidden in the back of the cabinet

In the basement 

Behind the coffee cans

Filled with loose nuts and nails.

Hide the carving knives

In the kitchen.

House Rules

If it’s yellow

Let it mellow

If you piss on the rim

Or seat

And don’t wipe it up

If you come in with

An illegal handgun

If you’re looking 

For an unwarranted 3-way

If you’re looking through

Our medicine cabinet

Or dresser drawers

If you can’t carry in/carry out

Or if you litter whatsoever

If you’ve voted for any 

Of the Bush’s

If it involves a traceable bullet

Police

Or the Feds

I’m done with them

If you’re on the sexual predators list

I don’t care how punk rock you are

But if you don’t like Nina Simone

If you don’t think

A man can love another man

Or a woman

Can love another woman

If you think that it is weird

That a guy

Can wear pink

And look really good

If you’re a trophy hunter

And kill living things

Just for the thrill

If you shop at Walmart

Wear a Rolex

Post pictures of your cock

On social websites

Have no conscience of global warming

If you color between the lines

Or don’t color at all

If you wear pajama pants 

In public

Scratch that

Because you wouldn’t be

Even allowed in my house

If you can’t dance

To fucking James Brown

If you’re a pathological liar

If you’re willing to throw somebody else

Under the bus

To save your ass

If you shoot fireworks 

Off of the top 

Of your head

Like an idiot

Or post non compos mentis selfies

Your dinner 

Is drive-through

You’ve never been to a library

You sweat asshole-ishness

If it’s red, yellow, blue

Orange, green

Purple or brown

Flush it down and
Get out of town!!!