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.