UMBRAL SKY

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The lonesome moon roams the streets
searching for mad love
in all its myriad forms--
it's image reflected in the gutter splash
that peppers my trousers
as a fancy horse-drawn carriage blows by.

A calypso drumbeat seeps
from some nearby edifice.
The crickets sing along.

I duck behind a shop
to drain the snake.

Memories of sinning in the alley
thrust
bang
bite
come flooding back.

I'm so uncouth
I laugh
slurring my words
it's only life
I'll just go back again
and take it on the chin.

Drifting along
weaving this way and that
muttering curses
into the dying night.

I am the master of my fate
but where are my subjects?

The moon climbs rapidly
in its umbral sky.

A poem swirls round
in my head
edgy and cryptic
teetering right on the brink
of beginning to stink.

I've walked right up to the abyss
and peered over.
Backed away
to fight another day.

Yes
I believe in mad love
in all its myriad forms
one's only leverage
in a broken world.

The cock crows.
A new day begins.

The will to survive 
is all we have.

STATUS REPORT

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Tucked away 
in my tower

safely hidden
from the past

keepin' busy
as always

I have my books
and my poetry
to protect me...

I'm only sad 
when I hear 
those songs again

THE STRAIGHT POOP

I enjoy going back through some of my older poems and finding ones that seem to fit the present situation, perhaps better than when they were originally published. This is one such poem.


If you got outta bed
this morning
you're an optimist
plain and simple
otherwise why would you?

I mean really
you're getting ready
to do your thing
goin' to work
goin' to play
goin' to get drunk 
and the sun is shining
and the birds are tweeting
( many of them have Twitter accounts)
and you just don't think about
how it can all turn to
shit
without a moment's notice
like the snap of your fingers

We live in denial
about the true nature of life
and the turning to shit factor
we just get up every day
and figure that everything
is gonna be fine
but then circumstances
beyond your control
and that's really the key
beyond your control
kick in 
and you stand there
shell-shocked
reassessing everything 
you poor pathetic 
a-hole

What did I do wrong?

Well it was nothing
try to understand that it was
nothing
it's just your turn
in the barrel
and everybody gets his turn
cuz we're all here to learn

And that's really when 
it hits you
that you gotta be brave
that you gotta find meaning
when all the evidence points to
a universe as cold
as a witch's left (or is it right?) tit  

And so you wrack your brain 
with the question...

What da fuk 
what da fuk
what da fuk
should I do?

Don't worry Bunky...
you'll 
think 
of 
something

Being brave enough to climb
out of bed is the first step

HEY NINETEEN

You're plastering those numbers
up on the screen again--
every night it's the same goddamn
thing, over and over--
be afraid...be very afraid....

You think you've seized upon 
the only thing that matters
or should matter
at this moment in time
because it's about
survival. And yet man 
does not live by survival alone. 
Cave man, maybe.
But not modern 
technologically advanced
and culturally refined man.

We've gone so far past 
the instinct to merely survive.
We've built a world out of 
inspired visions of what's possible
and learned that it's anything
and everything we can imagine!

And I can assure you 
that on a personal
level it's about quality.
Not quantity.

It's not good enough
to merely survive anymore.
And all your white--knuckled
fear mongering-- 
your constant 
sound the alarm
sound the alarm
like somebody's car being broken
into down in the alley
late at night...

Shut that goddamn thing off already!

We get it.

Because I can assure you
that on a personal level--
and I  know I speak not
only for myself--there have 
to be millions of a like mind
thinking this very same thing
right now...
that if this is the way
it's going to be
from this day forward...
if this is the world we're bequeathing
to our children
and grandchildren
then who needs it?

Who fucking needs it? 
Really.


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ABLUTION

Hidden gaze
melting
into steam-frosted mirror.
With a finger I sketch
the face
that I will wear today.
Tomorrow I'll begin again
with a clean slate.

UPON FURTHER REVIEW

The Ghost of Xmas Past
grips his impressive water cannon
and directs a great stream of piss
across time
into the 21st century
he still knows where
to find you
and his aim is true

the past is always present
in the present
your decadence a thread
running through your life

walled cities
with bearded men in robes
shimmer in the desert sun
you wake as from a dream
to find it was a dream
(or is a dream?)

all about 
the world is crumbling

oh
that's just you

but your mind
your mind
sharp as ever
maybe better 
and that's all you can afford
to give a shit about now

little things you forget
until it gets dangerously close
to the deadline
(forgot or subconsciously ignored?)
the little way you have
of creating drama
in a life now essentially
devoid of same

still
so many choices
your mind is racing 

you've acknowledged that
your only real objective
was to be happy
though it makes you feel guilty
to say it

and the only reason you're crying 
is because the world is crying

in reality you exist above it all
as ageless soul
pure essence
omnipotent
detached
as The Creator is detached
from his creation

now 
there are certain games
that once seemed crucial
to that rose-colored vision of happiness
you've suspended due to
the threat of storms

and anyway 
the guy only gets
the girl
in Hollywood






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BALTIMORE BURNING

1.  

NOTE: "Baltimore Burning" is an encore presentation taken from my book of poems and short stories: Last Tango In Timbuktu. In light of recent events in America over the past few days, it seems an appropriate time to bring it back.

Unfortunately
meaningful social change
has always been accompanied
by great upheaval
and unrest

because

Unfortunately
polite entreaty
doesn't seem to effectively
 gain the attention of those
 entrenched in the
 arrogance of power

and

Unfortunately
from Bunker Hill
to Selma
to Kent State
to Watts
to Ferguson
to Baltimore
the pattern has always been the same

and

Unfortunately
when voices
(the voice of the people)
fall upon deaf ears
the decibel level must be increased
to a level that may cause sharp pain
in the eardrum
to a level that will make them turn
grimace
and glare at you
like an angry parent
and say at long last

ALRIGHT THEN...
WHAT THE FUCK IS IT YOU WANT?

ALL IS NOT LOST (IT'S JUST YOU)

What do you do when
you're not a real person
or an actor--
a kind of Mister In-Between
like Burl Ives
whom we never could
determine if he was a
bad fat actor
or a fat bad actor
but we love him
just the same
when snowflakes fly

Everyone should have his time
to rut upon the stage
like two cats
outside your window
keeping you awake at night
or the energetic cast of Oh Calcutta.

There's the real person
(which I told you I'm not) 
and the image one projects
but to act you've got to 
be someone else 
inside your head.

I was born for this role
born into this role
for as I see it now
there was no one else
sickly demented enough
to do it justice.

And it smells medicinal
this bitter pill
you're asking me to swallow
when there's no evidence
it will heal the world 
or even this pesky toenail fungus.

And now I'm beginning to realize
just what you will exact from me  
O Great Spirit
before I ride off into that sunset.

I'll try to take it like a man.

Like puffs of smoke
we are here and gone.

But I've a vision 
that one day
Cherokee Nation 
will return
proud and strong
and so will I...

so will I

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LAST GASP

A doe raises her head attentively
some of us stop what we're doing
she hears the sound
far better than we 

For most it just blends in
with the rest of the
noise pollution
but for those who do take note
it mimics a cry in the wind
beneath the brainless bemusement
of the Cornhole Championships 
one has been reduced to watching 
as one dutifully 
shelters in place

Some switch to Fox
or CNN to get the latest
from the All-Pandemic-
All-The-Time channels 

We are all in this together...
comes up over and over
on the screen 
but it's not the way 
they'd have you believe

more like nervous strangers 
trapped inside an elevator 

and the doe and her ilk
are coming out of hiding
to reclaim the 
deserted suburban streets
stolen from them

Hey children
what's that sound...

boot heels hit the ground
as we follow along
in lockstep
(at least as far as
 the end of the patio)

And that cry in the wind
some of us 
but far too few  
heard was nothing
less than the
last
labored 
gasp
of 
ideals
we once held
sacred and dear
dying

the Greeks called it eleutheria!

WAITING FOR THE DAWN

When Frank Sinatra comes on 

singing "New York New York"

I shut off the radio. They'd been

playing some pretty 

decent stuff up till then

but that's like an obscene joke now.

 Still thirteen hours 

to go before dawn

and there's no guarantee

I will sleep any of it away.

Reading poems by Bukowski

and Raymond Carver. 

I buy books off the internet

to read on my Kindle.  

I buy plenty of books that way.

(I know you never buy a damn

book, but all your libraries are closed!)

I'm looking for something there, 

but so often I find disappointment.

Like the time--

it was a long time ago now--

I was at this singles dance

and this woman I didn't know

looked at me like she could

see right through me and she says:

You're looking for something...

but you're not going to find it here.

What did she think I was looking for?

Happily Ever After?

I still don't know.

But there's twelve hours to go before dawn...

and I know 

I'm going 

to have to

fill it 

with something 

that passes 

for living.