Wednesday, September 30, 2009

There's a bum
singing "Gotta Get
You Into My Life"
as he cruises
up my block ahead
of his massive flotilla
of shopping carts.

He loves me
more today
than yesterday,
but not as much
as tomorrow.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

An ocean of sycamore
leaves is breaking
on my bedroom window,
here -- morning's last moan
as the minute hand
ticks up toward twelve.

At noontime, to "laze"
becomes to "languish,"
so, to keep appearances afloat,
I will write a poem.
Let no one think me languishy.

And, when I've squeezed
into Tuesday evening,
and we are saying "so long"
to Sybil, my sycamores
will sweetly swish till my return,
when they will suspirate me
once more to sleep.

Saturday, September 26, 2009


Essex and Delancey
on Saturday morning,
and the degenerates
are sniffing me --
I might be a cop;
and the cops
are sniffing at me --
I might be a degenerate.

Duck into the OTB
where everyone's looking
for the stub of a pencil.

Until we're winners or losers,
we're all the same here.

But now the big lady
behind the bullet-proof glass
is yelling at me;
these multi-race exotic
cards make no sense to me.

Friday, September 25, 2009

What the Window Can Tell Us

Woe is the window.  Thin as an eyelid.

Think of it: it is maybe more there

in your mind than it is here, in between us

and the street.  A wash with a wet rag

and it is gone.  An outstretched arm

and it is back again.

How comfortable is your house?

Are you safe enough inside to fear

the outside?  We cannot be protected

unless there is danger, otherwise

we just are.   I fear the world,

so I do not have to fear in here.

When the window winks

with the light of dawn, I will rise

and remove myself from my handy home; 

my conveniences will wait for me.  

The liquid glass in my window

will sag historically.

Four Faced Liar Three AM

SHAFER: What's your name, buddy?
ROCKY: (shaking hands) Rocky. What's yours?
SHAFER: I'm Shafer. Like the beer.
ROCKY: So do I.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

'Twas the night before BCMF

Sing a song of six-gun,

a pocket full of hair.

If you hope to survive the night,

you'd better learn to swear:

"Play some fuckin' country!"

and scam another pie --

most of us have done this before.

The Guns have done it thrice.

Gather round us kiddos,

we'll keep you safe and warm;

slide the strings of a Telecaster guitar

and mind the swinging arms.