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!!!

White Light

She falls asleep upstairs

Smelling of

Fresh picked lavender

Her naked body

Braided within

Majenta sheets

Adorned with a purple

Moorish pattern

Found on Berber pillows

Or Moroccan caravan tents

Her skin

Carved soapstone

Smooth

Breathing

In reflection

Of the moon’s white light

Tonight

I remember white light

I drift past the screen door

Of the front porch downstairs

Into the same white light

To walk the dog

Into a town 

Of bioluminescence

There is a sweet breeze

I distantly recall

White light confection

Perfection

Swirly dreams

And flashbacks

I listen to the throaty drone

Of a shovelhead 

Not shifting

Hitting it up the hill of a county road

A few blocks from where I was standing

The dog and I listen

To this soundtrack

Of white light night

Assured that it didn’t 

Disturb her sleep

A few blocks away

On a second floor

After I walk this dog

I will return to her

To magenta

And soapstone

And the smell of lavender

Bathed in the cinematic

The End Of A 20 Year Marriage

At the end

In the middle 

Of fucking

She would ask

Not

"When are you going to cum?"

But

“When are you going to join a gym?”

Mind you

I wasn’t in bad shape.

I’ve been fortunate enough

To look around me

At other men

The same age

And thought to myself

“They look so much older.”

I continuously

Get disbelief.

“You look like you’re in your late thirties.”

Or generously

“I thought you were in your thirties.”

Even with grey showing in my goatee.

I realize now

Looking back

That she wasn’t happy with herself

And projecting that on me

To make herself feel better.

I knew then 

In the middle of intimacy

That it was over.

You can only listen to that song

On repeat

For so long.

Fucking had become formulaic

And demeaning.

Seven years on

I’m going to the gym

Because I want to.

And I fuck like a champion

Going for the gold medal.

She Looks Good In Red

The color

Of a crimson red carnation

Done 

In silk

And lace

Looks good on her.

Looks good against her skin.

Her muscles.

As she smoothes 

Back the covers and sheets

And puts her feet 

On the wooden floor

Looking at me.

Showing me.

That she really doesn’t

Want to go.

Her second look

Shows me there’s 

No other way.

Works involved.

Moments later

I hear the shower start to run.

Whatever magic happened

Is all over now.

Red was last night.

Dandelion Wine

One afternoon

We stole a bottle 

Of your father’s 

Homemade dandelion wine

And found a park

With a large meadow

Of grass

We laid down a blanket

And drank 

The entire bottle 

In the warm summer sun

We talked

And laughed so hard

I remember

Nothing happened

Yet everything did
Happen that day.

Gin Wife

Mix booze

With a narcisist

And you have 

A rough cocktail 

To swallow.

There’s many times

That I look back

And I wished I’d never 

Saved her life.

It’s true.

Near the end 

When I did 

Sleep with her

She snored terribly

And smelled

Even worse.

There was actually

A division line 

Through the bedroom.

Our bedroom.

It went right down the center

Of the bed.

Her side

Was a disaster

Stacked with papers

And stale clothes.

My side

Was neat and tidy

Vacuumed twice a week.

I had to live 

Separately from her throes.

So much anger

And fighting.

About WHAT?

It was the booze

And narcissism.

Talking

And arguing

And fighting

Physically.

I can remember

Being at work

Waiting for the phone calls

From my children

On a daily basis.

That their mom was fucked up.

Too fucked up 

To take care of them.

Too fucked up 

To make them dinner.

That they were scared.

I stopped all of that.

I put an end to it.

There’s times.

Many.

When I wish that

I didn’t come home.

Home

To find her

Whining like an injured animal

Dying.

The phone calls

Would’ve stopped.

I wouldn’t have had 

To take my kids

To see their mom

In some flea-bag motel

On the side of Route 202

To see their mom

In the midst of years

Of trying to get her shit together.

But me...

I’m doing alright.

I’m in the state of NJ.

We 

Have archaic alimony laws

In which

I pay her money.

Just saying...

I wish

I never came home

That day

To get my son’s lunch.