I don’t feel like being

not remembered

she said and sighed

the past lies dead

and expertly dismembered

the lies are the realm

of the effortlessly bleeding

my eyes see the new

and are no longer pleading

I don’t feel like being

not remembered

music comes dressed

in my new mirror

where I choose

what I wear

and what notes are the bearer

of me in the now

a surprising ascender

I don’t feel like being

not remembered

nyc 12.7.2020

 

MY FATHER’S BIRTHDAY

 

my father’s birthday

I didn’t know for the longest time

I didn’t care or I preferred not to care

who was he

unloved as I was

unfound as I was

my father’s birthday

I sleepwalked for the longest time

when he died the world was dismantling

who he was

how he softened

amongst the most frightening

I didn’t know it for the longest time

caring and sharing had no sweet reprieve

who he was

who I loved

was mine for the undertaking

I sleepwalked for the longest time

my father’s birthday

like butter now melted

still had the source

from which it is was drawn

I am clarified now in the house 

I have crawled from

a rarified mouse in a kindly rat kingdom

I sleepwalk from birth

hate the markers of age

the memory of worth the scent of the rage

my father’s birthday

has a name has a date

the second of February

am I too late?

 

6.26.15

Woodcut "Tormented Man" Author

 

THE QUALITY OF MERCY

a cat on its haunches
sits quiet and sweet

what are the chances
a tail curls in defeat
leaves a bird’s nest un-looted

when the hungry line up
on a street paved with patience
in the slow build up 
to ignorant resistance
great whites have been gathering
on everyman’s shore

what food there is

has a possible score
and the music plays on
while sharks 
keep on hammering

and I in my wet suit
and you in your poem
shall we leave the room empty

or dive for the song

who will break bread
on a natural farm
who will learn to defend

nature’s loss with alarm
I am old and disgusted
I am young and in place
I am ready and willing
I am drunk with disgrace
I have fallen not broken
into endless repast

this season ain’t over

this cat learns real fast.

 

7.18.14 nyc

Photo: Author NYC 5.25.25

 

HOW TO BE A WOMAN

 

it’s harder than you think

so many inconsistencies

trip the female on her way

where to go

what to be

in the cold light of day

how to handle expertise

how to sound like a woman

it’s simpler than it ought to be

many sins notwithstanding

it causes females to duck and sway

a winner’s grandstanding

when the no-fly zone

is tempting

where to check hairdos

in orchestrated debates

before lying onstage

before coming of age

you have been groped

you have been raped

that’s understood

you have twisted that hanging rope

of every male who has

fucked your sweet hope 

you have gritted your teeth

under a duvet of lies

being a woman is easy

with compromise

wear your heart on a sleeve

that leaves an arm fully bared

ready a punch or caress

the grin or the stare

how to be a woman

it’s easier than you think

trust your strength

send the clowns to the corner

make them stare into the brink

mine your worth

write your lyrics

be a woman

be the earth

 

10.12.16 nyc

Photo: 6.25.22 nyc

WE WERE CREATED

 

assigned to the future

tentative like furniture 

you haven’t yet bought

for rooms that are

silent as the drones 

you have

yet to drop 

slowly for a better view

when there is a story

we hive like bees among chapters

parsing a tale to suit

we straggle at sentences

like the time I dressed naked in your poet’s shirt

drunk-filled with poems

running from doctrine

misunderstood among the hoi polloi

we grasp what matters

parsing commas for relief

reasons for all this shit

suspended in disbelief

every mistake belongs to everyone

my love for him

is all I know

I mask yet I won’t begin to follow

we were created by our own kind

children are born free

a lesson unlearned for eternity

my love for him

is drunken sometimes

I grasp what matters

I struggle for the rhyme

we are created in evolution

greet the bastards with crime

signal the masthead

bolt from the line

my love for him

I roll like the credits

over a serial killer film

And then like the lottery

it’s ours in the end

like ours in the friendship

like ours to re-friend

I grasp what matters

my love for him has been in tatters

struggling for the rhyme

created in evolution

greeting the bastards for every solution

memory loss the time-honored escape

Being here is what matters

Being here is the rake

 

10.10.20 nyc

PHOTO: Take me to the River : Monks Ferry : Birkenhead : Wirral : 20:May:2025.

 

Take me to the River : Monks Ferry : Birkenhead : Wirral : 20:May:2025.

 

when she happened upon joe frank on the uptown local late one night

 

fractured route to undeserved blame

anti-personal bombs

like she’s seen all her life

in a sly way intended

like the wedding cake greets the knife

those bits of her that have been bloodied

what parts have been rendered

do they reek unhurried

salt among the scented 

on a late-night uptown train

she tested the field phone inside her

it held off guerillas

it fined the decriers

she asked for and got the nothing 

programmed like all the others

now seated across from her

apart from the others’ fur she was

wrapped in chancy sentimental

a list of liars in his back pocket

smelled of caution and secretive black light 

she saw him before the brain kicked in

his playbill rolled into undone

she, the spymaster was rigid with won

across the aisle of not fun

she on her own across the aisle 

recognizable mentor

his wife his savior his partner who knew

when she was sudden and leaden and undiscovered

basement-level of her own invention

imagine how hard it was to reign in

crazy to tell him he grew her

 

when the fresh eggs you are given

drop into your open palm

wash your hands it could kill you

or make you sing psalms

for the birth of anything animal or mineral

the thing humans crave are subliminal

 

she saw him on the uptown train

coming back from nothing remotely insane

what we have is embedded discovery

she shouts headless and crazed

no voice no sound

she recovers her ignorant gaze

he lowered his head undiscovered by her

playbill in hand

crazy to tell her he knew

 

3.15.22 NYC

Photo: author

 

SHELTER

memory means nothing

when you cannot remember

a time or a place

was it june or december

did the bed linens

rustle with angry love

did the morning come

with a forgiving blush

were you powerless once

in a snug cul de sac

did the houses get bigger

the rent out of whack

sure thing you recall

surviving a storm

was it strong was it cold

was it unseasonably warm

did you talk to your dog,

your plumbing, your stove

were you able to walk

and look over the farm

did you make a meal

alone in the dark

was your chaos just yours

or the plank to the ark

were sturdy trees felled

and arguments quelled

did you lose a friend

and make one of another

is the blanket you pull

up to your bothersome chin

enough to silence

a gymnasium din

did you vote

did you argue

before the storm

was the lovemaking made

before you were worn

here is the meal

in a plastic pack

like soldiers eat

before they attack

there is your cot

don’t mind the shriek

he’s your neighbor now

walking angry and guarded

remember your life

before it was martyred

you were a child

you were a start

someone will listen

to your beating heart

Rev. nyc 3.23.20/11.7.12

Photo: midtown east nyc 7.3.2024

 

LOSS

loss is gain is earth

is pain is sun is

rain is friendship dying

growth is new is ground

blue is meant for flying

death is newer fruit

is ripe and won is

worth is sisters crying

gratitude is found

even in the lying

life is data search

is then the sum of

panning for the golden

new is lost and wound

tighter than the runoff

right is wrong again

is still the burn off

on a friendless wind storm

sisters soulless found

nothing beats a sun roof

storm is calm again

is buried under

decades of intention

right is wronged renowned

living neat living sound

living quiet

dying loud

2.22.16 nyc

Photo: Tim Tapling Kings Gap : Hoylake : Wirral : 02:May:2025.

 

Fuck Bob Dylan

he wrote the song 

I was meant to write

Shithead Bukowski

settin’ in his grave and laughin’

has no mercy on my calling

write the fucking poem he sez

he’s already in love

meaning you, my passion

today I went to the soup kitchen

and felt the full strength of 

her fasten herself to me

like a crab, or kangaroo or a newborn baby

this was too much and too little

all at once

she saw the kindness

I knew the outcome

she wept and hugged

and then some

How would Bob write this

genius aggression

me on the ground

me saying things

I shouldn’t say

She fell into me in a doughnut of heat

I activated the life vests

on both of us

Don’t let them see your tears

they won’t understand

so much is in their hands

every week 

every week

They are hungry I said

and she wept indiscreet

they are just hungry I said 

and she nodded and left

came back a bit straighter

came back without a word

came back and served

Everything I want to write

has been written

even my epitaph will be stolen

we are a band of thieves

we are humans left longing

each moment is

churchless and

stateless

formless

friendless

nurtured

graceful

wronged and

faceless

Each moment is gone

 

1.16.16 nyc

Woodcut early 70s "The Last Laugh"

BICYCLE

so justly proud
she having scaled
that penultimate hill
not nearly the behemoth
that lay at the top
of the park still
to be ridden nonetheless
her bike a new thing
a new old thing
rewind and new wind
how proud he was
of her persistence
what made him
love her in the first place
she started
slowly
building to the rush
walking when
riding was the intent
pushing her resistance
up a hill
or two or three
she counted them
by their curve
their steepness
the distance to the
traffic light
at the top of the hill
she swore allegiance
to the hills
each one, one at a time
and then she talked
to her bicycle
spoke in a whisper
at first
tried desperation and
that did not work
she planned then
after each revolution
how her ride
in the park would go
the monster at
the top of the park would be ridden
she became her own
cheerleader
hoarse after a ride
after awhile
it worked she understood
the road and dips and
what hills
required
what will
and after awhile
when she felt she’d
managed the
overture
a heatwave
undid her
brought her back to
struggle and contemplation
she faced the hill and
said you do not own me.

6.21.12 nyc

PHOTO: 5.5.2025 Central Park