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Wednesday, July 30, 2008



To describe this awful sadness,
The melancholy which strikes so hard,
I must contradict tradition,
And posit the existence of a physical soul.

Your absence, the thought of your
Being absent from my side, floors my spirit.

I struggle to rise before the ten-count.

I bleed, darling, I bleed.

Your blows have opened a cut above the eye.
The men in my corner struggle to fix it.

They might not let me face another round.

I am finished. For me the fight is over.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

IMPOSSIBLE DREAM, A Valentine's Question

A Valentine's Question

I have an astounding dream to report.

It has me running in the semi-darkness,
I run with a key in my hand. It's a cylindrical key,
And has a single, protruding notch at its end,
The kind of key used to wind an antique clock.

Next to the wall at the end of my run stands
A giant, cartoon heart, painted, yet color so natural,
It rivals the red of a Red Delicious apple.

On the right at the top of this wondrous heart
A gold metal strike plate sets up over against
An aperture, the channel, does it lead

To the lock that might open up your heart?

Have I the key? Or do I dream only to awake,
Awaken to nightmare day of awful longing and ache?

Have I lost my mind? Has logic betrayed me?
Do I confuse dream wish with reality?

Darling, answer me soon! Does deep desire Verge on truth?
Will anxiety cease?
And promise of new peaceful kingdom be
Fulfilled, here, in this query today?

Now I stand before you, You, my Higher Power,
And the congregates sense the blasphemy;
They whisper calumnies.
They say that I am my father’s son,

‘He is the boy from the hardware store!
By whose authority has he right to reveal,
Who does he believe, who does he think,
He is to tell us his midnight imaginings?’

And me, their belligerence does not concern me,
Not a whit, though they rise up
And ready to condemn me.
I pray ... I might have definite answer,
That I am prophet in this house,
That I may begin this, my public ministry, positive,
Carry hope for life anew,
And have news extraordinary, good, for all to hear.

Down a space eclipsed in semi-darkness,
I run I have a key in my hand. It's cylindrical,
A single, protruding notch at its end,
The kind used to wind an antique clock.

Darling, please, your answer!
Have I the key to open your heart,
Or do I dream the impossible dream?

Monday, July 28, 2008



For me it's the cruelest month.

It means a peak in the Anti-Leo jibes.
They get to be a dime a dozen:
The schizoids and the watery types,
The plain old bores, their thousands worn-out remarks,
I am driven to exhaustion hearing about
How pompous my personality,
The supposed big-mouth grandeur,
Bossiness and dogmatism coloring my every move,
I'm sick of them, the rest of the quick, cheap shots
With which those weaker signs seem to indulge!

See, I mean it … Let me make it clear!
A Lion‘s no teddy bear, No!
Lawdy! No! A Lion is King of the Pussy,
And out on the vast African plain he runs free.

Sunday, July 27, 2008



How are you going to be a great poet,
When you've got no inspiration,
And you're tired, and it's late, and
Night after night your mind runs blank?

How is it you find yourself stuck on
That same old, worn-out theme, writer’s block,

When you should recall instead that glorious goddess
With whom you spent yesterday morning talking,
While on the grass, warmed all over, blessed by
The rays of an eleven-o’clock summer sun?

Monday, July 21, 2008

RED ROOF INN edited version

A Few Miles North of Trenton, New Jersey

An impossibly large bed stretched out across the room.

Between its feet and a long chest of drawers
A narrow aisle traveled the length.
It ran from the front door to the back of the room.

And you, there, in your underwear, in an alcove,
It was an enclosure directly opposite the bathroom,
And it occupied the suite’s entire width by half.

You were standing up against a cantilever table.
It was a wall-to-wall vanity with a mirror,
A mirror whose linear extent matched the table’s,
And it climbed up from surface plane to the ceiling.
Recessed lamps provided light from overhead.

You were brushing your hair,
And with each stroke I saw
How your shoulder blades flexed.

I rose up from the bed,
Took a few steps,
And then, still from behind you,
I bent my torso forward at the waist,
And extended my arms,
My hands reached both your legs at the ankles.

Head-down, I pulled myself close to you.
My left shoulder found the center,
It rested right between your buttocks and legs.
The left side of my chin found a niche,
It touched the right back of your knee.

I was squatting and each of my hands
Was wrapped around one of your respective ankles,

When I told you
That I had never personally encountered a woman
Who looked so much the better naked than clothed.

'Wow!' Burst out. And you said,
‘You sure knew how to compliment a girl.’

Woman! Trust my veracity.
For though dumb struck,
In my heart I recited the poet's immortal words,

'Beauty is truth, truth beauty -- that is all
You know on earth, and all you need to know'.

Thursday, July 10, 2008



Remember I told you how I handled Alex?

He was a bad case, eh,
What with his doing 8 bags o' dust at time,
And then visiting local bars, so sick,
Upchucking right on the patrons' jackets,
While they sat there, all innocent,
People on their stools were having a drink!

I didn't talk to him for years,
Refused all contact, I was afraid,
People just did not realize how afraid.
He occupied my thoughts night and day.

I thought he might wind up in jail,
Or dead or victim hooked up,
Like some medical experiment,
Doctors without options, practicing
Last resort medicine, wires and tubes,
And parent witness to nightmare,
The horrible ordeal when intervention,
Takes place in hospital emergency.

It's not death, for death but a word.
It is the way of it. I feared.

I called it love, my having nothing,
Absolutely nothing to do with him,
Until he went for help since he seemed
Unable to help himself, and cease
The shit into which he had tumbled.

I did not know what else to do.

Once he called me and said,
'Dad, I've got the monkey off my back!'
But I hanged up the receiver,
Didn't let him explain,
I couldn't take it, no more bullshit,
I knew he was still in the circus.

And Billy, a surrogate son,
You know the story, I … I treated him the same,
The same cold shoulder, not talking to him
Months on end, until he realized our friendship
Depended on his treating his two boys,
Like a proper father. I wanted him to put
His children first in his life, and I meant it.

Forget about my smile and easy charm,
It's never smart to test my resolve.

But, darling, when it comes to dealing with you,
I find no form of human love prevails.
No mere earthly style or mode of affection works!

Oh, the poetry!
Look to the poetry I write for you.
My heart wells up, the warmest regard,
Right up to the breaking point,
In poem after poem I tried to portray
How deep, how utter the abandon,
I declared I would gladly give my life for yours.

I used the power of verse to describe
My most intimate thoughts,

And proclaim the veracity of your physical beauty,
I wrote, RED ROOF INN for you.

I spent a year and wrote, NOW VOYAGER for you.

The time when in Brooklyn I found you,
That early,
that rainy morning,
I knew you were treasure.

You, the reason, I wrote, SERENDIPITY!

And to attest to your strength of character,
To express my fondest feelings for you,
I wrote, then, over and again, I rewrote,
the work was praise of you.

Oh, the tender thoughts! You on my mind
Beseeching you, and ever so softly, so softly
I sought to pull upon the strings of your heart.

And the letters, they are all love letters,
And we have a pile of them.

When I said it wrong,
Overstepped the line of common propriety,
And for those errors in judgment and phrase,
I beg you, heart, please forgive.

Whenever I lacked intellectual might,
The good sense to say it right with care,
Still it was you -- your well being foremost in my life.
My intent was pure, I wanted best for you,
And you know it! And though I wish you forever well,

Such a love you might not find again.

Yet I doubt all my love allows you any easier a sleep.

And one wonders what technique,
Just what kind of human love might lessen
The pain, the disorder troubling you,
And calm the upset delivering us
To this grisly end, the final stages of our romance.

Here I pray to God.

I fall to my knees and pray
-- Such my will to believe --
Ask Munificence be granted,
The Almighty do, on earth,
All those things that I had failed to do for you.

God's will be done.

Were it only so, had I been born, perfect.

And now, how I regret, when a child,
I wasted time playing with crystal sets,
And in the basement of my parents' home
Spent hours profligately upon
Imaginary laboratory tables with chemistry,
Meaningless experiments with liquids and powders.

Were it only so, had I been born, perfect,
A man fit, capable of grand devotion,
The kind of guy who might do you real good,
I would have turnabout and practice the illusionist’s trade,
And train until I possessed every trick in the book.

Then I could live within the mirror,
And when you went to look, instead of you,
The reflection staring back, my picture of you,
The way I see you when you stand before me,
And you and I would never loose that image,
That image of you so bountiful and pure,
No confusion, still and quiet and safe,
You, never fade away from the center of sight.

There would be light, love, and just approval,
And it would be my voice ringing through
The reflecting glass, your search at end,
No more whisper of doubt, all courage,
End to frailty, sadness no more,
We would come to world without poverty,
And know only hugs, freedom and peace.

Were it only so, had I been born perfect,
A man fit, capable of grand devotion,
The kind of guy who might do you real good,
I would have turnabout and practice the illusionist’s trade,
And train until I possessed every trick in the book.

Then I could live within the mirror, ...

Wednesday, July 9, 2008



Children see me run through the streets,
And wonder, what is it all about, my hurrying.

My eyes push forward,
Cause me to squint,
And then I break into smile.

Night after night in steady flow,
Ideas collect; press fierce,
Hard against my brow.

The pressure makes for heat, then fire in the brain.

I hear words march, with noise
Akin to soldiers' boots slapping on pavement.

I see your face.
The beauty of your large brown eyes, Makes my brain run riot,
Engulfs my neural circuitry.

Oh I smell wheat grass!
It's being blended with fresh strawberries and oranges.

I love the juices' heady odor,
When ever I breathe it in --
I am reminded of you.

I remember looking out the window.
We sat upon stools And people watched the intersection,
Corners at avenue and street, the sidewalk before us, Our theater, and we agreed, It was pleasant evening’s entertainment.

Pressed, cardboard cartons contained our suppers.
We ate our meals with plastic forks and knives;
The napkins were recycled paper.

Believe me, no irony intended. Honest!
Every memory, every instance
My being with you, was so lovely!

Here's my defense.
However I may wonder,
If I possess truth or fall to illusion,
I know that those two forces tie me,
Like Siamese Twins,
Born to share common cerebrum.

Friday, July 4, 2008



I know that by the time Isabel reaches her teens
She'll want to read all the love letters Dad sent to Mom,

And Mother,
Ever attentive to the moral order of the home,
Will have censored some details of the lovers’ delight,
Until the girl attains the appropriate age,
And she possesses the missives on her own.

And our son will study the photographs,
Taken when his parents' passion was young;
He will marvel at his Mother's beauty
And from her image learn standards necessary,
When it comes to the time
He chooses a woman for his wife.

And our children will cherish the memory of how,
Night after night over the years,
We read to them until they fell asleep.

And their minds retain the cadence of nursery rhymes,
And the breathy note of excitement
In tales of heroic deed and glorious adventure,
And the memories of wonderful delight,
The stories of fantasy and magic create.

Their rooms teem with books,
These books form a collection, a magnificent library.
It remains today the envy of posterity.

And most of all our children recall the hugs and kisses,
The times they rode on our shoulders
Their arms around our necks,
The softness of our voice when we spoke to them,
The affection lavished without stint
Bringing to soul warmth and calm,
And that happiness evident
From childhood spent in a good home.
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