Two cats are going at it loudly.
Wildly
As cats do.
I’m walking my dogs
On the other side of the canal
Pulling my coat in close.
It feels like winter out here.
It’s 44 degrees out.
Sex can overcome anything
I guess.
Especially if you have fur.
It’s all in the moment.
I listen to the cats
As I avoid
Puddles and mud
From the recent rainfall.
The sounds that the two cats
Are making
Is rousing the animal in me.
Cold or not...
I wish you were here.
I’m feeling feral.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Tom
Tom disappeared.
We used to sell together
At the Chelsea Flea Market.
We’d arrive in Manhattan at like
3:30 - 4:00 in the morning
Set up and be ready to sell
To our regulars an hour later.
We both had a good eye for the unusual
And knew how to display it for top dollar.
We sold the desirable
To the tough New York crowd
Spinning a yarn or two...
Oh, we had stories...
We were both artists.
Between our two personalities
We didn’t get beat up too bad.
We were respected
And we delivered the goods.
We’d sit in the sun
Drinking coffee
Smoking pot and cigarettes
Making breakfast on a little Coleman
In the back of the van
Haggling with dealers
Working the pretty girls over strong
One-upping each other
Like chess moves.
I won forever
When I sold Gina Gershon
Some framed vintage photos of naked women
For her bathroom.
"Dude! Do you know who that was?"
He asked.
"Nah,"
I replied.
"But she was fucking beautiful."
And then Tom just up and disappeared.
I didn’t see him at any of the other markets
That we frequented.
He didn’t answer my phone calls.
He became a ghost.
I even forgot about him.
Then today
I hit the flea market down the road from me
And there he was...
Pick-up backed up to his table
Thin cigar hanging out of his mouth.
A little rough
But still good looking.
“Hey amigo!”
I bounced.
“Yo T!”
He answered me smiling.
“Where the hell have you been?”
I asked.
“Got in a little trouble,”
He said.
“You know me, I’m always causing trouble.”
He kept smiling warmly
Cigar clenched in his teeth
Like Clint Eastwood.
He gazed at me
Full contact.
He still had a good eye
I noticed
As I scanned his table.
“I took off for Cali for a few years. I went back and forth from Southern Cali to Mexico.”
“I got into some trouble yo.”
I could read stories upon stories in his eyes
Even though he wasn’t forthcoming
About what kind of ‘trouble’
He got into.
“I just crashed at some friend’s places and did some crazy shit.”
"Then I moved back here and bought a houseboat down on the Chesapeake.”
“They’re trying to run me out down there too ‘cause I was fucking the mayor’s daughter!”
“I love that boat man! Any chicks I bring on there...I tell them if they’re still there in the
morning when I wake up, I’m gonna crack them right on the jaw!”
I haven’t seen Tom in many years.
Within ten minutes
He’s got me.
I stand there and listen to his tales
As he one-ups me big time.
I gave him props
As we hit knuckles.
“It’s great seeing you again. I thought you were dead.”
I said.
“Shit! Not me homie! I’m living!”
Of everything that he had told me
I took that away as truth.
We used to sell together
At the Chelsea Flea Market.
We’d arrive in Manhattan at like
3:30 - 4:00 in the morning
Set up and be ready to sell
To our regulars an hour later.
We both had a good eye for the unusual
And knew how to display it for top dollar.
We sold the desirable
To the tough New York crowd
Spinning a yarn or two...
Oh, we had stories...
We were both artists.
Between our two personalities
We didn’t get beat up too bad.
We were respected
And we delivered the goods.
We’d sit in the sun
Drinking coffee
Smoking pot and cigarettes
Making breakfast on a little Coleman
In the back of the van
Haggling with dealers
Working the pretty girls over strong
One-upping each other
Like chess moves.
I won forever
When I sold Gina Gershon
Some framed vintage photos of naked women
For her bathroom.
"Dude! Do you know who that was?"
He asked.
"Nah,"
I replied.
"But she was fucking beautiful."
And then Tom just up and disappeared.
I didn’t see him at any of the other markets
That we frequented.
He didn’t answer my phone calls.
He became a ghost.
I even forgot about him.
Then today
I hit the flea market down the road from me
And there he was...
Pick-up backed up to his table
Thin cigar hanging out of his mouth.
A little rough
But still good looking.
“Hey amigo!”
I bounced.
“Yo T!”
He answered me smiling.
“Where the hell have you been?”
I asked.
“Got in a little trouble,”
He said.
“You know me, I’m always causing trouble.”
He kept smiling warmly
Cigar clenched in his teeth
Like Clint Eastwood.
He gazed at me
Full contact.
He still had a good eye
I noticed
As I scanned his table.
“I took off for Cali for a few years. I went back and forth from Southern Cali to Mexico.”
“I got into some trouble yo.”
I could read stories upon stories in his eyes
Even though he wasn’t forthcoming
About what kind of ‘trouble’
He got into.
“I just crashed at some friend’s places and did some crazy shit.”
"Then I moved back here and bought a houseboat down on the Chesapeake.”
“They’re trying to run me out down there too ‘cause I was fucking the mayor’s daughter!”
“I love that boat man! Any chicks I bring on there...I tell them if they’re still there in the
morning when I wake up, I’m gonna crack them right on the jaw!”
I haven’t seen Tom in many years.
Within ten minutes
He’s got me.
I stand there and listen to his tales
As he one-ups me big time.
I gave him props
As we hit knuckles.
“It’s great seeing you again. I thought you were dead.”
I said.
“Shit! Not me homie! I’m living!”
Of everything that he had told me
I took that away as truth.
The Dancing Girl Of Shamakha
Warm desert breath
Slithered serpentine
Through the resinous nicotine tar
Of the Azerbaijan night.
The breeze weaved itself
Inbetween the shadows
Cast by the oil lamps
Hanging...
Like rattan for a basket
Or wool for a rug
Of which the region was renowned for.
The desert sent forth
The aroma
Of the city’s bazaar vendors
Packing up for the evening.
Ripe apricots, peaches, melons
Spices, herbs
And fresh sturgeon and caviar
Fragrant like a sheaf of flowers
Just picked
From a neighboring garden.
She
Moved with purpose
Unhurriedly
Upon the expensive carpet laid out
Just for her
On the rooftop
Of a wealthy patron’s home.
Her hips undulated
Beat for beat
To the rhythm played
By the four musicians
In the shadows off to the side.
The percussion of the tambourine
Rippled down her spine
While the others improvised
On the rebeck, rebab
And tar
In 6/8 signatures.
The dancer’s arms
Also moved like snakes
Replicating the warm breeze
In front of another group of men
Sitting on a gathering of silk pillows.
The men sat transfixed in a spell
Smoking from a jeweled hookah
And drinking from a shared bottle
Of raki.
Delightful details swam through them
Each one determined to offer her
A proposal of marriage.
Her skin
A mirror
Reflecting
The alabaster
Of the low lustrous cloudless moon
Illuminating
The nearby mosque
And the city surrounding them.
Slithered serpentine
Through the resinous nicotine tar
Of the Azerbaijan night.
The breeze weaved itself
Inbetween the shadows
Cast by the oil lamps
Hanging...
Like rattan for a basket
Or wool for a rug
Of which the region was renowned for.
The desert sent forth
The aroma
Of the city’s bazaar vendors
Packing up for the evening.
Ripe apricots, peaches, melons
Spices, herbs
And fresh sturgeon and caviar
Fragrant like a sheaf of flowers
Just picked
From a neighboring garden.
She
Moved with purpose
Unhurriedly
Upon the expensive carpet laid out
Just for her
On the rooftop
Of a wealthy patron’s home.
Her hips undulated
Beat for beat
To the rhythm played
By the four musicians
In the shadows off to the side.
The percussion of the tambourine
Rippled down her spine
While the others improvised
On the rebeck, rebab
And tar
In 6/8 signatures.
The dancer’s arms
Also moved like snakes
Replicating the warm breeze
In front of another group of men
Sitting on a gathering of silk pillows.
The men sat transfixed in a spell
Smoking from a jeweled hookah
And drinking from a shared bottle
Of raki.
Delightful details swam through them
Each one determined to offer her
A proposal of marriage.
Her skin
A mirror
Reflecting
The alabaster
Of the low lustrous cloudless moon
Illuminating
The nearby mosque
And the city surrounding them.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
The Rose (Black Baccara-Blood Flower)
The flower struck the flesh of her ass
And just like it
The bud was firm and juicy
Holding up
To the repeated lashings.
The stem and thorns caused her white skin to rise
In a narrow criss-cross relief
Welted firm
And swollen
Sometimes delivering blood
Seeping from the center
Of the dune.
Before the crimson
Amounted to anything more than a trickle
He dragged his tongue across her wounds
Pulling at the poison
As she began to bloom.
And just like it
The bud was firm and juicy
Holding up
To the repeated lashings.
The stem and thorns caused her white skin to rise
In a narrow criss-cross relief
Welted firm
And swollen
Sometimes delivering blood
Seeping from the center
Of the dune.
Before the crimson
Amounted to anything more than a trickle
He dragged his tongue across her wounds
Pulling at the poison
As she began to bloom.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Deisel
Amidst the low-lying fog
Baby-aspirin orange lights
Beckon
Alchemic
From the shadows of the trainyard
Sounds of bells
Air-horns
And heavy diesel motors
Make me hard
As they belly-drag
Burdoned
Scraping moon-bright steel rails
Passing by slowly
Like apparitiions I’ve rubbed up against
Stumbling
Swaying
From the smokey bar in front
To the derelict
Urine steeped
Bathroom
At the rear.
Baby-aspirin orange lights
Beckon
Alchemic
From the shadows of the trainyard
Sounds of bells
Air-horns
And heavy diesel motors
Make me hard
As they belly-drag
Burdoned
Scraping moon-bright steel rails
Passing by slowly
Like apparitiions I’ve rubbed up against
Stumbling
Swaying
From the smokey bar in front
To the derelict
Urine steeped
Bathroom
At the rear.
Monday, November 21, 2011
GI Joe
There was
A very intricate, specific point
Where playing with GI Joes
Took a turn.
It involved
Black market fireworks
And gasoline
Siphoned from the lawnmower
At the back of the garage.
GI Joe went on active duty
One afternoon following school.
Each one of us brought our own matches.
The wrath of war
Was soon to tarnish us.
Limbs were broken
Flesh was burnt...
Sometimes beyond recognition.
Remaining charred clothes
Would be the deciding factor
Of who’s body
Belonged to whom.
Artillery would explode
Severing legs and arms
Exposing plastic joints
Or opening torsos.
Toys that once meant something
Became worthless.
And while it was exciting
To see a copter go down
Or hear the rapid fire percussion
Just after a fuse hit
All of us yelling on pretend walkie-talkies
“Hit the dirt!!!”
We only saw it as fun...
A game...
We didn’t know of real war
Until our fathers arrived home
After a long days work
Already drunk or pissed off
And they surveyed the charred
Still smoking damage
Of war zones
Patched through their
Perfectly manicured
And labored over lawns.
Black thick smoke
Even then still billowing
The scent of flash powder
Clinging in the air.
The real wars began.
A very intricate, specific point
Where playing with GI Joes
Took a turn.
It involved
Black market fireworks
And gasoline
Siphoned from the lawnmower
At the back of the garage.
GI Joe went on active duty
One afternoon following school.
Each one of us brought our own matches.
The wrath of war
Was soon to tarnish us.
Limbs were broken
Flesh was burnt...
Sometimes beyond recognition.
Remaining charred clothes
Would be the deciding factor
Of who’s body
Belonged to whom.
Artillery would explode
Severing legs and arms
Exposing plastic joints
Or opening torsos.
Toys that once meant something
Became worthless.
And while it was exciting
To see a copter go down
Or hear the rapid fire percussion
Just after a fuse hit
All of us yelling on pretend walkie-talkies
“Hit the dirt!!!”
We only saw it as fun...
A game...
We didn’t know of real war
Until our fathers arrived home
After a long days work
Already drunk or pissed off
And they surveyed the charred
Still smoking damage
Of war zones
Patched through their
Perfectly manicured
And labored over lawns.
Black thick smoke
Even then still billowing
The scent of flash powder
Clinging in the air.
The real wars began.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Anniversary
“The ONLY reason he remembers the date of our anniversary, is because it’s the
combination to his gun case.”
combination to his gun case.”
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