The thumping and darkness in the bowels of Irene
sit lugubriously on the edge of serenity
the pounding and the tears through all these years
languishing in turpitude and solace from her knowledge
unceremoniously, recklessly and without feeling
while listening to her tongue lashing and
harshness of her venomous and thoughtless words
cracking like a whip, “do you think I’m an idiot”
Not once but twice while searching through black clouds
of disappointment and destitution … no rhyme…no reason.

All due to confusing north from south and east from west
reality from fantasy as we all feel the sound of her thunder
Irene crashes on and above the banks of New Haven,
Guilford, Fairfield and the Housatonic
lapping and licking at the shores while throwing
her magnificent weight in her favor, and the swells explode
the question, “how can she possibly know the children”
Even though downgraded and ebbing
the uneven strength and fortitude asks the question
and all my determination fades in the wind.

Trees weakened as we begin to dig out and explore
power lines and internet down, hampering communication
flooded streets and nervous bridges impeached
yet Irene serves notice with an ace of her own
dressed in her sheer-like vest and turquoise ring
her hazel eye filled with scorn and distain
while brightness and candor follow her path
with her feline temperament scratched and clawed
the tears begin to taper amidst her howling breath.
Irene begins to move northward stoically away from me.

I’m not a victim so I pick what remains of my heart
and begin to reattach my churning stomach
with the threads of her words of disbelief
bringing the force she was most capable of exerting
as the storm continues her long, unforgiven journey
hatred and disdain replaced by disinterest and apathy
as the breath disappears, the light becomes brighter
and Hurricane Irene decides to leave Connecticut
impact in place, on the broken bows of the sturdy trees
perhaps she was right, after all was said and done.

…and who knows
better than I
the ways of a night owl
or for that matter
the hour of the cat
maybe a cathouse
or simply a bar
take the Texas for instance
cavorting women (or girls)
who for 500 pesetas
plus 100 for room
and 20 minutes
out of one’s life
release your tensions
or maybe more
who knows the reason why
(and who really cares)
for 20 minutes
of uncertainty
you can pretend you’re
a man
and imagine she’s a lady
all for 500 pesetas
plus 100 for room
and 20 minutes
out of your life…



Friday, March 9, 1973 (Barcelona, Spain)

Tonight is the night we all dread and fear,
     because of the tensions arisen by them.
Who will be next and who will see me in the
the mirror of the dungeon...
Who breaks it down and rebuilds
       when it ends with the sound of a clatter?
We speak of the danger and peril of fate to
decide on life.  Who wants to know the
meaning  of sounds, the
meaning of love, the
meaning of hate.
Who can pretend to know;
when pretending ends with a clatter...
     Send the village a card addressed to Bill.
He knows the feeling I speak of.
The peace in my mind,
the love in my heart
the spirituality that,
         ends with a clatter...
No one can tell a person in distress;
one who feels with emotion and
confusion.
Confusion of what?
I wish and oppose to know.
I want and I fear the knowledge.
I receive and I squander the thought of love.
But as always fate shows the upper hand;
and by the fury of all mankind,
ends with a clatter....