2018, A Mythological Autobiography of a Wolf, poetry

a night at the opera

Sarge glances
through the glass
that lines the kitchen
people, waiting to be seated,
stare in;
as the kitchen
shows ’em controlled chaos.

Sarge spots the black dress
and goes back to
making deserts.
he spins around
and takes some more orders
as the printer
prints ’em out.

as he goes about
building plates,
he starts to hum
and then a song comes out
from under this breath
as he puts the desserts
up in the window;
and begins the next order.

‘Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.
lookin’ thro’ the window of my cage.
watching her with my gaze.
singin’
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.’

sarge spins around.
opens the cooler door
behind him,
and grabs a creme brulee. spins back around.
to the rhythm of the song in his head.

‘Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.’

he puts some sugar on the top of it,
levels it out.
reaches out
and grabs the torch
lights it
and then flips it.
singing his little song.

‘Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.
looking thro’ the window
kinda going crazy
thinking ’bout a lady.
singing
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.’

he drops the creme brulee on a plate
he has ready on the stainless steel shelf
drops a mandelen on the top
and spercels some powdered sugar over it.
and starts singing again.

‘Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.’

1996, New York City, poetry

New York City pt. x.2

I did not come here
to be judged and cursified. [1]
for your sins and failures.

I will not carry your cross of fears on my back,
thorns piercing my brow,
my bare feet bleeding from the cuts
given by the sharp slivers of glass
hidden in the cracks of the sidewalk.

I see you are not one I can trust;
though you say differently,
you’re trying to peel my skin off with your words.
I have closed myself to you;
you can never enter again.
I’m afraid you might steal something else.

1991, New York City, poetry

New York City pt. xiv

1
I gave you love in bits and pieces,
the only way I know
protection maybe
but you don’t have the right
to stand there
screaming at me,
accusing me of hating and using you.

There’s nothing that says
you can’t call me.
You accuse me of drifting,
of being tortured.
The words confuse me,
disorient me.
I feel like a traitor,
drifting confused.
I feel bloated from similar feelings.

The answer:
knocked out with Ludes and Scotch,
and sucked into a deep deep sleep.
What should I have done?
What should I have said?
What I didn’t say.
What else are we caught between?
Another sky?

2
I found myself walking down Broadway,
long fast strides
my arms slapping my legs:
ropes on a flagpole on a breezy winter day.
I was trashed,
drunk, stoned, and wired.
I was cold,
real cold.
Thoughts jumped around in my head;
but I could never keep one down long enough
to see what it was.

The prophecies speak for themselves;
nothing can be added.
They bred among themselves.
But what of us?
Do we have lives then?
Can we change fate?
Can we decide,
we don’t want to move the arm that way
but this way,
and the fingers like this?

poetry, The Uncollected Poems

Ocean

Days go by and I do not understand a word you say,
as your waves rise and lower upon the bed.
I think maybe I should have begun to understand;
but the words you speak are the notes of a song
sung many generations ago in a language
handed down only in etched stone.
The melody of your voice is simple but steady
and who can not admire the grace of step,
the giving of skin,
as you roll across sea-oats and shell beds.
The droplets of sweat that form and glisten
are both wet and salty to the touch of the tongue.
Nevertheless,
I am afraid as all men probably are,
apprehensive
as I attempt to swim to the core of your soul,
that you would storm and I drown.
So I build walls of rock and concrete upon the sands
to try to keep you at bay.
And only visit you when your waters are calm.
But this doesn’t work, a single tone from you
would shatter every window in my house.
So I have chosen the only solution:
to camp out upon the shell beds in your arms
under the stars
and wait and listen for a reply,
for you to instruct me how to fathom your love.

2002, poetry, Struck by Lightening

Hair

Each hair on my head
has its own idea of where it should go.
There’s not much left of it now
to clog up the bilge;
‘cause, I took my chef’s knife to it
two days ago in a marina bathroom,
which rocked back and forth
as I sawed
with knife in one hand
and a clump of hair in the other.

When I came out
brushing strains of hair from my cut-off shirt,
a leather skinned woman stared at me,
smiled and said.
-a little hot out there huh kid?

-yeah. I laughed.

2002, poetry, Struck by Lightening

Thrown into the River

Wordless, I am
in this wave of wanting
satisfied
pure
for life flows within this river,
in which they threw me.
I did not die,
I flourish.

Moist flour, garlic, thyme and lemon grass,
these scents float through the air,
as you lean against me.
I embrace you.
I live of you.

I have a muddy heart,
for I have lived in the river a long time.
The night mud was my home
With the catfish, eels, and tadpoles.

Albeit, life lives within these waters,
surging through the excrement of death.
So love flows through time.