THE GREATEST LOVE STORY EVER TOLD

In a recent hayloft on an October afternoon,
a great love story was dictated
from a tattoed arm to a knife
to a massive pork.

At the time, I was determined
not to have a good time, but
as we slid from tenderloin
to shoulder and deep into
sowbelly, I stopped trying
to recall the plot of part two
of the film Short Circuit.

I soon was slaved into captivity
by Bryan's intimate relationship
with our ex-ungulate. Life
and food found me, and I was lost
in a butcher's love for the butched.

In time the sundered sow
would slowly roast into a meal,
but in this moment in the middle
I learned about a man -- Bryan
the butcher, and his passion
twisted my eyes awake
into a moment from which
they remain unclosed.

THE TYLER SAY

The Tyler say: tonight
is to much for me today:
good night afternoon,
good night today,
good night young ladies
& the pork who made us
sway like thieves into
the raspberry yard:
the fire looks so pink today.

WHAT THE TYLER SAY

The Tyler say a Saturday
night in New York is just
a Wednesday night in Brooklyn,
and as the night slides
right past twelve, who are you
to disagree: the Tyler would
say that you are a fine
a friend to find on the curling
surge toward the weekend.

Good night, friend. Tyler say
he'll see you Saturday
for cinnamon, shrimp & raisins.

FRIDAY THIRTEEN

Frightened of Friday
no more, for (from now on)
Friday the thirteenth
will be frightened of us.

WHAT THE COCO KNOWS

Photos don't show what the Coco knows,
and the green grass will not tell a soul.
The glow in the fire lends to us a clue:
where once there was nothing,
here is something warm.

But when the hamhock went begging
was when Coco really started to shine.
From our haylined trench we waited
from dispatch to dispatch from the Coco front.

And Coco's intelligence arrived in code:
this is tasty. This is warm.
This is something else
Coco would like for you to know.

GOOD NIGHT GALS

In the middle of the afternoon,
Amanda and Becky said goodnight,
and while the dogs and farmers
kept watch, the girls slept,
the fire burned, the fat rendered,
and the massive ewe bleated
down the road. Just another night
Upstate, in the middle of the afternoon.

Old cold Brooklyn:
my skin will be made
of blankets now for months.

& THIS JUST IN:

out there on the edge
of the photo is where
the news breaks: I'll
say hello to you (and
high five you) in this
cursory fashion. And
over rapidly will go
this notion: Sunday
morning (looking
fine) while taking
a long look back
at Friday (where
started our minds.)

PRIMARY COLORS & CARPENTRY:
A PRIMER

Carpenters know that carpentry
is primarily colored in yellows & greens:
witness the wild greenish-yellow
in which floats the level's bubble,
and you will start to see what they mean.

Clothes do not make the carpenter,
but a yellow flower makes the clothes,
and an Amanda around is handy
when you're screwing yourself back together
not so long after you've tied one on.

WHAT HAPPENED ON HALLOWEEN?

Hairy fruit is twining its way
up twisted twigs along the horrifying
Hudson; and tonight all eyes
are on the Catskills foothills
where the spirits of Henry's
mutinous crew may return tonight
to tweak with midnight piglike sprites.

Meantime our bottles of bourbon
seem to be drinking themselves
while our mouths mutter prayers
while the gibbous moon waxes,
and tomorrow our minds
will just barely remember.

Coco isn't sorry
she ate the pig
you left in the hole
beneath all those coals.

It was delicious,
so warm and tender
on a Saturday so cold.

Now only this tail
tells the story of the hog
who in this mud once rolled.

ONE MORE DAY WITH COCO

Soft rain yielded
to the red Mercedes
Saturday on the high Hudson.

Coco told me
where I was going.
I was mildly astonished.

We were hanging out
with the hanging pigs
in the hayloft
before the coffee was cold.

Coco, tell me everything
you know: about your
revolutionary cigarette
and dry boots for my toes.

Little Sister

Little sister,
I love you
like a flower
growing out
of my head.

Thirty-four,
and I still like
dinosaurs,
astronauts,
fire engines,
Danny White,
and the way
the world looks
through the window screen,
and I still can hardly stand
to say goodbye.

Joe's Toes

Joe's toes
are prowling
around San Francisco.

Maybe your eyes
will see them, if
you aim them low.

There's an

owl hooting in the backyard.  

And a big buck eating 

the flowers we planted.  

I love this place!! 

Even though the owl kinda keeps 

me and Jake awake, and we 

paid good money for those damn plants....  

I think sycamores are my favorite trees.  

I love thinking about them at Kriterion.  

They had those seed balls you could squish.  

I am already planning a trip 

for me and Coy this summer to Vegas, 

I'm hoping mom will watch [your nephew.]

If not Jake, will have to.  

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.

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.

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.

'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.

THIS TRAIN'S BOUND FOR SOMETHING...

By Sam Mastandrea

We met on the Q train around 2 a.m.

She was beyond beautiful, 
my kind of beautiful…
could've been Bianca Jagger's sister.

I got the feeling
the reason she sidled up next to me 
was solely for protective, 
not romantic, purposes.

We started a discussion about 
old black and white movies.

She said she would've walked Gregory Peck's dog through a minefield.

I told her I would've had Rita Hayworth's baby. 
In fact, my first born child 
will be named Rita, 
even if it's a boy. 

I could tell she admired my dedication.

Next we discussed deal makers and deal breakers
for potential dates/mates.

I pointed to a Budweiser advertisement 
with some ripped blonde surfer-type and asked,
"What about him?"

She said, "It's hard to tell because I can turn off the sexy."

"Turn off the sexy?"

"Yeah, I can just ignore the six-pack abs, 
the Hollywood smile, the chiseled jaw line 
and that mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.

I can nullify the physical 
so my attraction to him would 
be based purely on his actions, emotions,
and thoughts."

I told her I admired her stance 
in regard to transcending the physical.

It seemed like a noble and realistic approach. 

She wrote down her phone number
on my palm with an eyeliner pencil -


then she steamrolled through 
a twenty minute diatribe 
about some scientist in Germany
who had grafted Walt Disney's frozen head
onto Eva Braun's body and
the result was 
a new ambisextrous UberGod
who would judge 
the living and the dead
and its kingdom would have no end.

I decided to get off a few stops early. 


I woke up the next afternoon 
with a slightly smeared, 
yet legible,
phone number on my palm.


She answered after the third ring.


"I'm surprised to hear from you! 

Especially after you 
called me a 'friggin' deranged crackpot
before you got off the train." 


"Yeah, well I guess 
I just can't 
turn off 
the sexy 
like you can." 

Screw yourself
into the Northwest corner
of your bed so
that most of the weight
from your body
rests on your heart:
now, you know,
you have a heart,
and each dog's hand
you shake will tick --
your immune system
staying near & deer.

Midwesterly

The magnetic power of Minneapolis is well-documented

in the scientific community.  *Ahem,* ladies and gentlemen,

how many of us have awakened to find our bodies flat on our backs

while our minds are away up on the upper Mississip;

even when gravity attacks, and our spines get out of whack,

our brains still browse the Ax-Man looking for a project to attack.

Who is so strong to resist these limbless plastic baby bodies?

These 95 cent plectra?  These rows of motors alternating

with alternators?  We will meet in the afternoon of the out-

of-body, together again for minutes.  

And when we scientific minds wake up, our theories

will be strong, but all that Midwestern mystery will remain:

such a fine secret to share with everyone; there

at the center of the continent, with eyes full of beer,

I’ll see you again next night’s rabbit or afternoon tap.

Good Night Sun

Good evening. Even
with the Sun so low,
the night still slips
down our hips. And
I will see you inside;
once this spell is
busted, we will slide
into a reverent circle:
I'll catch you flipping
for an innocent edge
on the other side.

Give Me A Call Some Time

I'll be on the phone,
and all you'll hear is
boop boop boop boop,
so you'll hang up
and hit the road.

I'll have missed you
today, but catch me
tomorrow -- we all know
where to find each other
in this good old world.

We'll be all over each other
from the wooden tables
outside Crown and Anchor
to down by the stream
in the summertime.

An Old Photo of Today

Much older than today are my friends
in a photo I took tonight, but tonight
when the hours grow long, and the music
we used to love lazes long in measure.

Older than the music are the couples
who tonight will find fine Atlantic air
meets the places where they sleep,
where the cold air meets their quiet lungs.

Tomorrow the scene will be newer,
but we'll be a few hours older than tonight.

Give Me a Call Sometime

It will be way away
in that future when
everything burns too bright:
a call to arms is still
a call; call to see
what's our next move:
make a coded call
for future action, or
cool off and call in the morning.

The Finger

Midnight: Coastal Connecticut,
and Lucas finds the finger.

The corners of the porch define
our borders;

on Monday our Holiday Road
will take us home,

but tonight the Sound is sweet.
Montauk waits quietly across the water.

Tonight's the middle of the party,
for which Lucas has found a finger.

Give Me A Call Sometime

It will be 1979, and I will be king
of all the thin brown carpet
that I can see; all three feet of me
moving top speed down the stairs
to explore the wide cosmos of the courtyard.

Call me because never again
will I be as available as I am now
to talk about imaginary magic seeds
called "sesame."

Call me and maybe we'll hit the street;
take the cat down to Winn's
for a comic book, and when we're home,
I'll tell you how to get to Houston,
Left on I-10 and go straight.

NaPoWriMo 04/30/09

HELLO DENVER

Hello Denver,
you might be glad to know
this is still your town to me
in so many ways.

Two years later,
you still find funny ways
to pop up -- in a night out,
in a back room.

I am happy to report
that two years later
a late-night robot
can make me smile.

NaPoWriMo 04/29/09

BEWARE THE FUNNY HAT

Be wary of the funny hat
late at night on the streets of Brooklyn
when any amount of attention
is unwanted: our anonymity
is our best friend tonight;
it is different from hours ago
when all eyes were on you;
you were a star.

It is right to move from constellation
to bandit and back again,
our unknownness is our time
to do the little things: to move
from one place to another,
to play a game, to eat some chips.

Tomorrow we'll feel like
we've gotten away with something
if only tonight we get away with it.

NaPoWriMo 04/28/09

THE REALITY OF OUR SISTER GRACE

Our sister Grace is not,
strictly speaking, our sister:
we found her one night
in a Corpus Christi bus station;
she was fully formed
as if hatched from an egg.

My brother Dick and I
knew we HAD to have her,
so beautiful and wild!

But if course
she wasn't our decision,
she followed us home,
she felt right beside us,
as if she'd been there
the whole time.

Our parents knew it too;
there was no "can we keep her
PLLEEEASE," it was just
"hello Grace, welcome home."

NaPoWriMo 04/27/09

SAXOPHONE SOUNDS

Hello Saturday, hear
my saxophone sounds,
our bleat-bop style is fly
on the wall of this truck,
I'll make this alley mine.

NaPoWriMo 04/26/09

PINK HEAVY

Oppressive Spring
is upon me, branches bent
with heavy pink beauty.

We are slowing down
beneath the trees,
bony December far away.

NaPoWriMo 04/25/09

sucking on a beer:
John Cotter from New England
happy Spring indeed

NaPoWriMo 04/24/09

MY NEON II

An orange-red radar beeps
in the darkness -- my night vision
blurrrs a halo onto every corner;
an insectine chirr catches my ear:
a sign pops into my sight,
and so begins my Friday night.

NaPoWriMo 04/23/09

MY NEON

Neon is not always neon;
electricity arcs to excite
other noble gases
to make light and color:
orange-red for neon,
blue for argon (with mercury)
and xenon is purple-white.

But fluorescents can be deceitful,
do not look to these signs
for noble gases; look for
"dinner," or look for "subway."

NaPoWriMo 04/22/09

FROM WHERE POEMS COME

From where do poems come?
Last night John Wieners' voice
leaked out of the internet
and into my ears. Did that poem
come from John Wieners,
or did it come from the internet?
Paul Killebrew sent me the link;
there is abundant evidence
that poems come from Paul.
And are there poems
without my ears and eyes?

A blueprint for poetry:
John --> internet --> Paul
--> eyes --> ears

NaPoWriMo 04/21/09

A PURPLE HOUSE PERSON

This is my purple house
where I talk to birds -- hey
bird! and where I talk
to plants -- hey plant!

My lady is asleep upstairs;
she is an uncommon girl
with whom I have a common
relationship: it's amazing
the things you can do
with a cell phone.

When she awakes,
we will walk from our purple
house out into the green
world. Our love is law;
our rituals are old
and well-tested.

NaPoWriMo 04/20/09

GOOD EVENING SUNSHINE

Long after happy hour,
our smiles remain here
where the friendly folks
congregate, on the
North side of Monday,
on the South side
of Manhattan, on the
wooden side of the bar.

Sink side, Shafer's working,
and his eyes are so thankful
when we help him
take the trash out,
or bus some tables.

Shafer growls, Teejay
smiles, and we all remain
through the evening,
long after happy hour.

NaPoWriMo 04/19/09

THE WILDEST CAT IN KANSAS

Oh great ounces
of bourbon, oh
wild cat of
The Great Plains,
your name is known
from Manhattan, KS
to Manhattan, NY.

Our love for you
is near as the burn
of whiskey in the backs
of our throats.

Keep yourself safe
and wing it back to Brooklyn
to us and to the bottle
we will keep safe for you.

NaPoWriMo 04/18/09

AS THE CROW SMILES

Aurorites unite
behind the firm front
of Brendan and Tracey:
thank them for
a nurturing mother
ship to dry off
when we're logged
with rain and to cool
off when we're dry.

And seventeen issues
from now, may your smiles
still be finely flecked with crow.

NaPoWriMo 04/17/09

THEORY OF FORMS: MONKEY LAMP

I light, and therefore I am Monkey Lamp,
and back here in the shadows in the back
of Jamison's bar, that which I illuminate
is often all that is; when Jamison
clicks me off, there is nothing, and
I am Monkey Lamp no more.

[click] Monkey Lamp [click]
not Monkey Lamp [click]
Hey there are two people
making out on the "leather"
couch; that is too much
for my Monkey Lamp eyes [click]

No daylight filters back
into my little Monkey Lamp room,
but Jamison sometimes sits
and tells me of the big world
out there, a world with as many
lights as there are monkeys [click]
Monkey Lamp [click] no Monkey Lamp

NaPoWriMo 04/16/09

BROOKLYN DAWN

Dawn's rosy fingers touched
my Clifton Place this morning;
my feet were all over the street
and the stoplight kept us all safe.

I traced a path to the corner store

to search for grapefruit soda,
I tried to tell the fellas there
about a drink called Ting.

But our English wasn't enough
for us, we agreed to give it up;
I said "go Mets," and he said
"ayyyy," and home went
my Gatorade and I.

NaPoWriMo 04/15/09

LOVE TO BURN

America lives out West
in western Wisconsin --
"the Land of Trees Touching"
to the natives.

Power is plentiful here,
so our extension chords
are curled up on bumpers
decorating our purple buses.

The snow is a museum;
come inside where it is warm.
We will show you our animals,
our drinks, and our guitars.

Later on, someone's target
practice might tear up
the evening, but for now
our boots are freezing on the hood.

You can decide on your own
omens when the bus begins
to move again; tell us
what it tells you -- if it burns.

NaPoWriMo 04/14/09

Big confetti busts
out above West Fourth; April's
cruel chill continues.

NaPoWriMo 04/13/09

WHEN SPARKS FLY

When materials oxidize and react to make fire, it's chemistry
And we stop hiding behind our collars and our beers
When sparks fly on Friday night, it's called electricity

Let's meet down at Coney to forget the week's perfidy
And to find someone fine who later we'll fear
When materials oxidize and react to make fire, it's chemistry

The whine of her grinder is an aggressive sort of prosody
And I find myself drawn nearer and near
When sparks fly on Friday night, it's called electricity

Toward stammering salutations her performance is prodding me
I'll break the spell of her headlight on my deer
When materials oxidize to make fire, it's chemistry

It's a bit of late night intoxicated trickery
My odd combination of bravura and cheer
When sparks fly on Friday night, it's called electricity

I've never quite learned what behavior is worst for me
I can't quite say how I came to wake up here
When materials oxidize and react to make fire, it's chemistry
When sparks fly on Friday night, it's called electricity

NaPoWriMo 04/12/09

MIDNIGHT CONEY ISLAND AVENUE

Saturday skips across midnight
and here we are: I miss Mark's
porch, but it's one good night
at a time: good night Coney
Island Avenue: good night
Old Carriage Inn: what will
the East Side say when we
say "Hello?"

NaPoWriMo 04/11/09

SUNSET: PROSPECT PARK
(END OF THE LINE: MARK REILLY)

Prospect Park is on golden fire
through the tint of my Cadillac
in conveyance to Mark Reilly
on his birthday: what apocalypse
harbinges Ocean Avenue,
so cool & slick on this Saturday night:
the pointed roofs of Windsor Park
poke menacingly at the evening:
a police escort with "birthday boy"
written on its armored fender.

NaPoWriMo 04/10/09

DEE DEE RAMONE: TEXAS AGGIE

Oh magnificent Seventies,
when golden tones fudged
at the edges of our senses
and dinosaur punk rock
agriculturalists roamed the land.

A Dee Dee was a Texas Aggie
was a black shirt was a guitar
strap dangling a slicktastic bass.

My one-year-old mind
was textured with thumps
but now it's smooth and slick
from Queens, NY to College Station.