chiseled on the face of snow
winter sleeps in porous white
silent drift as frozen souls
swims in dreamer's tired eye
put upon a jilted mask
by who's hearts are made of ice

time to melt away the nap
split the coat of seedy cage
bloom into the tints of pink
spring and blossom, seize the day

these resplendent mosses wild
curl in lush of ferns asleep
toe across the floor of dark
but with feather'd pixie feet
swooning babble by the noon
step a breathing melody

while slippery rays of sun
torn and terrified
do fall in forest seat
melt at pleasure's sight
when shadows sweep the air
challenge the greatest heights
through steepest layers of dream
its time the mind shall climb

stumble shed the cloak
fly or run in deep
journey past the forest's
verdant canopies
as seasons paint upon
canvas of crimson trees
in while the hollows sing
to those fallen asleep

i'm yet to find myself
through misty layers adrift
journey's far across
and into abyss

lone below palatial mounts
secluded outcast
the twilight dives in echoes
in layers of shadows past

a sound of broken trails
hunted waned or lost
scorching blood and sweat
never once forgot

she rises holding breath
swims in heavens high
no one's come this far
swooning to her sky

as dancing glint of stars
laid upon its smile
the adagio of dream
my gift to you is life

I call her Moon.
              Why, you ask?
Because she is light
     when my nights are heavy.

r ~ 4/24/14

Sing me a song of rain.

Strike lightning in my eyes.

Blow a warm breeze through my hair.

I'll dance a happy Wood Stork dance for you, my flower child.

Pretending all the while that we're at Yasgur's Farm.

r ~ 4/25/14

(t'is the spine, from which we need speak)


this then the secret you knew
but could not speak,
for you did not
know it
in the way
knowing was needed...

what do we owe each other,
when first we speak,
of that risk greatest ever taken,
cross the line
from maybe to amour?

exciting times,
heartbeat and pulse,
performing an un~orchestrated
syncopated rhythm,
your mind 's eye,
never more focused, observant,
never more judgement~poor,
for distortion of love heat
have affected your flying instruments...

this then I will answer,
for though memories are mossed,
certain things are burnished
and I remember my first loves
and I remember my first crushings,
as if they were yet to happen...

so when to the negotiating table come,
outstretched, your hands,
pleading your case,
you owe her this:

from the spine speak,

ignore the eyes and heated heart
signal distortions,
if you wish to tell her
how you have come to feel~believe,
tell her from the spine...

for if in agreement,
you will never stand taller

if on two different steps you stair,
if lucky, time may cure you
of your hunchback crooked ****,
for the crook will have stolen your straight,
which is why they call him and
now, you too, sadly,
crooked...

character is your best selling point,
*so, from the spine speak

~took a walk in the city today,
and this happened in the O'Henry tradition~*


the blind man crossing E. 15th,
does not look, nor does he care,
all foes on-coming,
come hither, he dares

his light is red,
yet his cane extended,
he click clacks steadily ahead,
unaware and unbeknownst,
his new step by step sidekick,
Sheriff Natty,
is writing an air poem to a
taxi driver with his
shotgun *******,
a NY gesture of
welcoming *******...

a green light means passage
is a taxi's right,
but my left shoe firm
attached to his bumper,
plus multiple looks mine,
any of which could ****,
his argumentation poses
do somewhat chill...

the sheriff of the city, his motto,
sic transit finger gloria

~

among the sadder sights
of city life
is contrast...

the dark-only coolness
of an Irish bar,
on a bright spring day
when life and love
is bud sprouting
while old white men,
on single soiled solitary stools,
their colored cheeks green
from the reflection of
TV emerald diamond fields,
sipping many pre-game $3
Guinness draughts

around the second inning,
they switch, onto
boilermakers to make
the languid afternoon stretch on,
this I know for sure,
for in the large gilded mirror
behind the bar,
see the barkeep's back asking me,
"what will it be for you
this fine spring day?"


~


next to the bar, in the corner market,
an old man's hands tremble in an old man's way,
in a way I only know thru his testimony,
as he does his daily self-feeding,
his wallet removed, fumbling for two
single soiled solitary one dollar bills.

the shopkeeper's fingers
beat the counter impatiently,
the old man's beer brown bagged,
transport ready, though the old one
rather be next door,
the extra Dollar saved causes
a last minute delay, shaky fingers,
asking for an extra purchase,
a small can of dog food please,
so he can watch the game at home
and share the same meal
with the man's real and best,
and only true spring weather friend

~

the mayor proclaimed as a matter of
public safety, public decorum,
a pack of three or more woman
wearing all black Lululemon athletic wear,
were now banned from being outside after nightfall

later this night, in Carl Schurz Park,
many vamp voices were heard
singing the lyrics to
"i want to do bad things to you,"
but they staked him only
to a free color reeducation

~

these takes I witnessed,
all or some,
these tales I took
some or all,
from beneath my skin,
where city streets grit
injected beneath my skin
came with the title,
City Boy,
and honored me
with its O'Henry life and lore,
and the vision to believe what is
in my bloodstream

for Ali, Ali, Ali, a daughter by any other name
                                                        (April 2014)
Dear Nat,

your letter caught me up,
at the Village Vanguard bar,
so addressed and there saved,
knowing, believing it's a sign,
time to meet fleshed again,
my sometimes sub-let
neighborhood friend

doing a gig there
this weekend
finishing up the tour
where it all began,
nothing gonna change my mind,
in the city that's where I'm staying.

the road is calling out my name,
but I ain't walking out the door anytime soon,
they want too much body and soul,
but don't worry once or even twice,
got some cash, it's all right

early afternoon, bar empty,
got a few rainy minutes,
got me paper n' pen
and a beer, from the
bar man who also gets
me whatever else I need (haha)

sorry I missed you in Cleveland,
you, back in New York when
I'm finally out your way,
ain't just like fate,
to make us ache so all alone

read your lyrics,
made making some suggestions,
like a baby's new clothes,
lots of bows, a few lines fell
down onto the floor
can't be found
like broken pearls on a dance floor

J. sends regards,
told her what you wrote about
A Long Black Veil, she laughed,
promises she will wear one
when next we all three meet

touring was good and hard,
traveling time is writing time,
but sitting here thinking
how many years have passed and gone
since we first met,
so many roads different taken
by many a first friend,
each one I've never seen against,
let's not that happen to us

rail riding done for awhile,
see ya back on Bleecker Street,
if we're still "cool"
we'll have that fire burning!
Ok, we'll swap some  lines, fine,
but I want, claiming dibs
on that ole easy chair

P.S. got the rent money covered till your return in the summer

Bobby
April 1968
~~~~~~~~~
Between 1968 and 1973,
split my time tween Cleveland and NYC,
before returning to ny full time in the summer of '71.

I lived at 352 Bleecker,
above the long gone
but now moved to Brooklyn,
Pink Teacup restaurant. The eyetalian bakery on the corner of Bleecker and Seventh Ave., long time gone...almost fifty freaking years ago...anyway...I think the stain glass window is still there, gonna have to check it out...shoot forgot about Google Earth!

psychotic, she says

psychedelic, he says

tho black n' white,
tumultuous are the variances of shading,
the hints of unknown fragrances
of days yet to come when,
spring earth and spring buds
long past the point of expectation,
inject colorful unexpectedness

eyes so clear so bright,
how can she not see beyond the pale
emotionless expression of gaunt,
that all turbulence is not bad

see that streak of black hair,
refusing to be hidden, a provocation,
curling, asking to be stroked,
pitter patter it teases the lips,
but only after it grazes the eyelash
so seductively it screams
I am beautiful!

does she fail to see?
who will not permit her
to see what I have seen?

the lyric comes to mind instantly:

Well let me tell you 'bout the way she looked
The way she'd act and the colour of her hair
Her voice was soft and cool
Her eyes were clear and bright
But she's not there


her eyes are clear and bright,
her pen delicate and light,
she unbeknownst surrounded,
by admirers that gladly lay,
not their cape, but their whole body
across these leftover puddles of winter

will she? will she cross over?
with those eyes so clear, so bright,
there is only one acceptable answer!

*come spring, come summer,
her true nature will nurture