Soapbox (Pulled From The Trash In Front Of A Starbucks)

I’m not one to panhandle

My foggy ideas

Or preach to anybody

As if I had anything of any merit

Or importance to say.

I won’t be holding up handmade signs

Scrawled in water-based soy ink

On re-purposed cardboard

At any of the street corners

Or in front of any government buildings

Cause I just can’t spare the time

Or the dime.

It’s been awhile

Since I’ve been at a peaceful demonstration

And I only went to smoke

Other people’s weed

And meet hot chicks.

So sometimes

I get trapped in my own head

And wander the streets at night

While normal people 

Watch multiple TV’s 

In every house that I pass.

They flip between ‘Tan Mom’

And a 1/2 hour profile of someone

That’s addicted to eating kitchen cleanser.

What happened to

Mozart or Bartok

Or reading a book?

Dishwashers were invented

To give us more time to do other things.

Family Time 

Is now sponsored

And measured in Nielsen ratings.

Daylight Savings

Once meant 

That kids stayed outside later

Playing tag and manhunt.

Whatever happened to intimacy?

Moving shadows in the windows

Sounds escaping

Intended for no one to hear.

Philosophers, musicians

Artists

And great spiritual men

Were once immortalized

In chiseled stone

Often by teams of slave labor

Spending their entire lives

Rendering

One likeness.

Today

They would appear in a commercial

Selling a luxury car

Daft Punk pumping as the soundtrack

Or have their publicist

Carefully decide which competing

Late night talk show

They should appear on initially.

They would be one of the first eliminated

From a 6th season major network talent show

Because they actually had talent.

Their rise and fall

Carefully edited and mockumented

On their own reality series...

Van Gogh cutting off an ear
In High Definition...

Superhero Driving Down Route 31 South Towards Flemington

“I’m taking these”

I told her

Looking her straight in the eye

As I pocketed her black panties

That I had stripped from her

A half an hour ago.

Unfortunately I had to go.

Driving away from her house

I decided to put her panties on

Over my face

So that I could breathe her in.

It was wonderful.

Sun was still out

On a late Spring evening.

A good time for a drive.

I couldn’t tell you what other 

People were thinking

As I passed them

Or they passed me.

I can tell you 

That I didn’t care.

I was the superhero

Of her underwear
Displaying my special powers.

Piccadilly Circus

I just woke from a dream

That you and I were at

Piccadilly Circus

In London

And we hobbled up and down 

Each of the crooked stone stairs

Of every tiny antiqued burlesque house

Within several blocks radius.

We breathed in 

Make-up powder and stage dust

Stale sweat and dirty lingerie

Spilled wine and beer

Glitter and pasties.

We inhaled a foreign history together.

The girls weren’t necessarilly attractive

But their bodies were good

And the shows

Although similar...

Each showed an individual talent 

With a nostalgic majesty for the craft.

They kept us entertained in the dirty seats.

We spent the afternoon 

Into evening like that

Often going backstage

To talk to the performers

Offering them American cigarettes.

I got the same vibe

As when we visited 

The retired burlesque dancer’s shop

On South Street 

In Philly

Where they handmade elaborate costumes and underwear

For strippers

And we hung out

Talking for some time

With the owner

Who reminded me of Phyllis Diller.

Home is simply 

Never very far away.

To Dead Joe Bolton

In honor of poetry month

Someone

Had the brilliant inspiration

To ‘publish’

One of your poems

Upon the glass

Of the window

Of a small bookstore.

Until then

I had never even heard of you.

It was on my way to the theater

To watch my daughter audition

That I broke stride

Stopping completely

To read

“Lines For Hank Williams”

Scrawled across paned glass

In black marker

Radiant in orange reflection

Of warm late afternoon sun.

The aroma 

Of stacked literature

Wafted out of the open front door.

I stood there

And read your words

Several times over

Inspired.

I didn’t know that you were dead then.

I stepped inside

Inquiring which book

I could find that poem in.

The clerk went on and on about you

With pleasure

While he searched for your only book.

I bought the last copy.

Some would call this fate.

I, on the other hand

Would like to call to attention

That it was you

That almost 

Made me late

To my daughter’s audition

That day.

Adrift

This night is opaque

And uncluttered.

Early Spring fog.

The constant rush

Of the river overcoming

The Wing Damn

A mile downriver

Echoing up

Into the umbrella

Of rich woolen tapestry

Festooned with sporadic

Cabochons.

The throat of a Harley

Clutching up

And going South

Is the only other sound

To break the wax
Of the stillness. 

The Little Death And The Return

There was more authored

In that silent breath

Held suspended for a short moment

Before escaping

Returning

Even stronger

To the atmosphere

Within your bedroom

Than most novels

Written

Or that I have ever cared to read.

Our eyes locked

Unfettered

As time passed

On it’s own

And you hung on

And returned

To this present life.

Mary

While I was doing you

On the hood of your car

I was beholden 

To your tattoos and black hair

Moving on your moon-bleached flesh

While the headlights of the cop car

Pulled around the corner

Of the abandoned brick and brokened glass

Industrial building

Switching on their high-beams

And flashing blue lights

Catching you 

With your legs in the air

Your back polishing the hood’s enamel

And me immediately 

Pulling out of you

With my pants around my ankles

Tripping backwards 

In cop white light

Small stones eating at 

The skin of my ass and palms

As I hit the pavement.

They told me 

Not to move

And I lay there exposed

Limp and glistening
Smelling like Mary

While they took you aside.

Not one of my proudest moments

Until I heard them 

Ask you

If I was holding you there

Against your will

And you replied

“Of course not!”

Followed by

“You guys sure know how to ruin a good time!”

The cop standing beside me

Roughly pulled me to my feet

Pausing

Making sure that I saw

The small smile turned

At the corner of his mouth.