Basement Nocturne


In a cradle of damp concrete
The life-sodden moths were born
Wrapped in grey furs, these midwives of mould
Make static of the breathless cellar air
Eternal infants beat at every window 
Each collision eliciting
Another burst of dust 
As they tear themselves apart
Trying to reach the light 

You should never have had to share that air with them 
No person should
In that still-born underground
That confusion of life
Where the pale violence of moonlight
Forms a thousand crucifixes 
Against the glass oubliette of the sky 

The Welder’s Tarantella

In their sleep, the dancers are still dancing, in the same way as, thirty-five years on, I still dream of welding cars. It’s hard to believe, but I was strong then, without a scintilla of spare flesh, tossing sheets of pressed metal with the grace of a Big Top juggler, and writing them with fire into contracts of roar and motion. I animated myself with drugs and fresh oranges, blood red wine and melting steel, until there was nothing but ache and scar tissue, parchment-thin around an accident waiting to happen, and then … I was an anonymous shape in a danse macabre, singing plainchant in pig Latin, my body plucked away by crows. I was a weathered carving on the spandrel of a ruined cathedral. I was paper caught in the branches of a centuries-old yew. So, I know so well how dancers dream, as my sleeping body twists its unconscious rhythms, as if it was a bright banner flapping at an abandoned circus.

My sister and I learn about Elvis

The gravestone of his mother Gladys 
has a Star of David on it designed 
by the King of Rock & Roll.
Imagine, we text, Elvis! Elvis! 
His great-great (two greats, we count)
grandmother Nancy was a Jewess 
from Lithuania, which makes Elvis
(by laws only Jews know) a Jew.
Weird, Elvis counts more than Einstein, 
Marx or Leonard Cohen but let’s face it:
The King's one of those eternal
mysteries our people need.  

Playground Wars of the 1980’s
 
you start with a solid battleground
we used the giant slab of cement
at the Oak Hill playground
that served as two full size basketball courts
you need twenty or so kids
stupid enough to think this would be fun
you need fireworks
and lighters – empty beer bottles
 
each team takes up one full court
and assembles their battle lines
back line – bottle rockets (aka missiles)
middle line – roman candles (aka mortars)
front line – firecrackers and sparklers (aka in the shit)
 
Rules of engagement:
    1. You must stay on your court
    2. You must stay in your lines (no front-line bottle rockets)
    3. Learn how to dodge

somehow
4No eyes or fingers were lost
No cops showed up
cracks and pops
flower-bloom explosions
crossed in the summer night
ten minutes
of teenagers exalting in utter chaos
there should’ve been a fourth rule

    4. Do not wear mesh crop tops

but this was the eighties
and everyone wore them
and sparklers stuck in the holes
and my brother screamed and jumped around
and that fiery emission of heat and light
burned a hole into his armpit
and mom was going to find out
 
He was able to hide that scar for years
well into adulthood
it helped
that mesh crop tops
fell out of fashion

Coloring Trivialities

 
I care a little more
To whistle more.
I wrap my love
Like a hug of
Musical uproar.
You are in caring June
Like a moon on wire,
Where a tightrope walker
Walks,
There lies a shade
Of security.
It is a mystery to stray away
But discoveries are like
Wandering boots
That gets heavy.
I am a word twister,
You are a blended bloom
Of turning trivialities to color.

Grow Up

 
When will I grow up
A boy asked his dad
When you dare say anything
You want, the father responded

When will I grow up
The boy again asked his mom
When you won’t say what you want
The mother explained

The boy grew up and wondered
Which parent was right, until
He realizes it doesn’t matter
For his world is grown up

 

Happiness

only exists because
you come to bed naked,

the tips of your nipples
like new buds on a bush

or small, ripening berries,
the kind of true miracle

that led Keats to give up
his medical studies

and become a poet.

Toast
     for Ron Padgett

What can I say?
Taking another sip 
of coffee, I keep
trying to decipher
the chirps and chatter
of the birds 
frantically yelling 
at each other outside 
my open windows.
The morning remains 
darker than this cup.
Or maybe I’ve closed
my eyes in concentration.
To heighten certain senses.
To focus my attention.
Whatever I’m doing, 
it doesn’t appear
to be working.
I’m as terrible
at eavesdropping
as these birds 
are at “singing.”
I’m the worst spy. 
Or else I’m not 
really their audience.
The only thing
I know for sure is,
everybody needs to relax. 
Well I do, anyway. 

Yours…


You show up in my dreams
I can't say that you look happy 
Even in eternity, I manage to
Disappoint you 

I will wait right here
For a sign from you:
Shifted pictures, four
Candles that spell H / O / P / E
Turned around to face the wall

I will stay here until you show your face
And I think I spot you standing in the doorway of the
We Close At 4:20AM Smoke Shop – so random!

O eternal wanderer
I know you see me in your peripheral
Don’t you remember the va-va voom?
The “Cut it out and get a room”?

A virginal paradox!
Big-tittied complexity in a lyric sung
By Mr Al Green – the one where you take me
To the river and wash me down

Dashed hope --
You weren’t intended to drown
You were supposed to live and
Finally claim what is
Yours…

 

 

WORRY COMES WITH AGE

As doors slam I shake with a fear I ain’t
Ever experienced before as my mind is full
Of paranoid fantasies of some smacked up
Junky nut will kick my door in & then my
Head but tonight, just like so many before,
It’s for next door again.

“If you don’t let me in,” he screams, “I’ll
Kick the fucking door in you bastard!” &
The silence from him next door is deafening
As I nowhere what sounds like a large man
Straining and then suddenly a loud, a really
LOUD crash & the door is off it hinges as
The pair go at each other like a UFC fight
Until finally a few minutes later the roar
Dulls to a quiet whisper & soon the door is
Back in place as no doubt some business
Is done and it got me thinking…

Why? Is it all connected to the hypodermic I saw
Sitting on the grass by the cafe on the Steine this
Morning that suggests the real bad smack is here
Hunting victims & my neighbour is casting that
Spell over some poor unfortunates like the hip young
Amy I spied hanging outside my shop today.  Seeing
Her I worried as she talked deals with an aspiring
Businessman & I thought, wow, worry really must
Come with age!