And on the day when
He shall gather them all together:
O assembly of jinn!
you took away a great part of mankind.
And their friends from among the men shall say:
Our Lord! some of us profited by others
and we have reached our appointed term
which Thou didst appoint for us.
He shall say:
The fire is your abode,
to abide in it, except as Allah is pleased;
surely your Lord is Wise, Knowing.

Holy Quran
The Cattle
6:128

Do you build on every height a monument? Vain is it that you do:
And you make strong fortresses that perhaps you may
And when you lay hands (on men) you lay hands (like) tyrants;

Holy Quran
The Poets
26: 128-130


The desert Jinn of Cairo
flit and dance
upon the burning waters
of the Nile.

The midnight streets gasp
with the turgid fragrance
of tear gas and jasmine

The stink of the
ungrateful dead
riles the nostrils
of indifferent gods
laughing
at the litter of corpses
strewn along
torpid boulevards
in this city of lament

Unbounded crowds dash
amongst fleeting shadows
the agitated ghosts
of undead generations
refusing to stay buried
blink to life
in epileptic frenzy

The timeless city
civilizations
fertile floodplain
authored
western cultures
opening chapters
housed mythic libraries
erected mysterious
stone tributes
esteemed
monarchical opulence
now yields
frenetic outbursts
of Arab fury
writing
an epilogue
to a despots rule
the blessed end
to an imperial age

Rampant corruption
asphyxiating bureaucracy
malicious suppression
syphilitic exploitation
rabid oppression
enforced ignorance
human defilement
are the bitter
sediments
of degradation
layered in crushing piles
upon the lowly masses
on this delta of sorrows
breeding revolution
to unravel a tyrants
specious claim
to perpetual rule

The city
streets
flood with
militant
insistence.

Emboldening
a peoples will
to rise up
beating hearts
pounding
a sonic drum
resonating
through
this age
foretelling
a turn
in history's
creaking wheel.

Allah Allah
Allah Akbar!
bleats
from parsed lips
from underground
brotherhoods
the rising words
sharper then
Saladin's Sword

The Holy Quran
flows like boiling blood
in agitated hearts
dissidents pound
bloodied fists
against intractable walls
of monolithic power

Visions of liberation
a democratic paradise
an infinite harem
of compliant virgins
swim in the heads
of dissidents in motion
as baying throats
exhort comrades
shouting brave
seditious slogans
to engage
bullets
batons
water cannons
and unsure outcomes.

I heard a young woman say
"I have faith in my people
and faith in my country."
Never a more foolhardy sentiment been expressed,
nor braver words have I ever heard.

As the laughing Jinn of Cairo
flit and dance
atop the burning waters
of the Nile.

A city
self immolating
atop a pyre
of blood stained stones
dry constricting fables
passed down along
marching epochs
hieroglyphic puzzles
recorded on
crumbling papyrus
wrapped in
holy legends
of mystical pharaohs
receiving an exiled
Father Ibrahim
fresh from
the destruction
of *****
cedes to the
Lord of Fear
spawns a lie
and gives
Sister Sarai
over to the
unholy whims
of profane
magistrates

Abe's skin saved
soul preserved
the generations
multiply
more numerous
then the countable stars
in a known universe
not vast enough
to find room for
Hagar's cursed progeny
-call him Ishmael-
a wild ***
exiled to
Desert of Paran
siring many
lesser Semites
becoming
a strong archer
in the vast legions
in timeless
service to
an uninterrupted line
of deranged Pharaohs

This scorned land
grew the
grievous reeds
swaddling
Baby Mussa
who turned
the river of
his arrival
into a flood
of gushing blood
who split the waters
to consume
the raging armies
of marauding charioteers
bent on the annihilation
of their chosen
Semitic half brothers

The shame
agitates
the simmering
rage of ambivalence
gladly sacrificing
these historic
treasures
on angry
bonfires
tipping
the glories
of Alexandria
into the sea
once again

Up stairways
down dark alleys
the Jinn of Cairo
dance
haunting ruins
hurling stones
burning buildings
looting stores
smashing artifacts
cursing the bitter bread
of tyrants
chasing
the black echos
of deadly gunfire

Nasser's
dead soldiers
gather in corporeal legions
a proud nations
undead generation
mythic heroes
dashed in Six Days
rise from
shallow graves
of Sinai
shame is loosed
to stalk targets
heated enemies
setting aflame
the burning waters of
a very blue
unsettled Nile

The unholy platoons
Sadat's assassins
hurl grenades
like thunderbolts
from jealous Zeus
implores Mars
to join the fray
rousting the specter
of dead kings
and a terrorized
President
living in the black days
of his final nights

Tell Ole Pharaoh
to go back to the hell
from whence he came
as the laughing
Jinn of Cairo
dance on  the
burning waters
of the Nile.


Music Selection:
Randy Weston: Blue Moses
(WIP)
1/31/11

sinner to sanctification
reason over revulsion
reaction begets agitation
converting intransigence
drowning in sin
flailing for a life raft

Music: Pete Seeger
John Brown's Body

jbm
Oakland
010913

a half moon rises
as the sun sets over
a golden Charles

the Fens
luminescence
guide scullers
chasing the days
ebbing light
shimmering
upon near
stillness,
as dancing
black ripples
push silver
splashes of
floating sheens
toward the
gentle slopes of
grassy banks

fisherman cast
the day’s final
hopes upon
gracious waters
as shad fry
breech to
proclaim
a promise
of a dutiful
return to fulfill
a future bounty

this accessible
river, the pulsing
heart conjoining
two cities;
flows as a  
democratic spirit
drawing all to its
hospitable shores

my eyes remain
transfixed on
the glowing ember
of a twilight Charles
drifting under darkened
portals of the
Harvard Bridge,
while the rise
of a sunset breeze
whispers a cool
end to the
summers day

I imagine
Luna blowing
a goodnight
kiss to a
yawning Sol,
as she winks to
young *****
lovers embracing
the long shadows
and sweet fragrance
of tall bulrushes

a slight puff of wind
anoints my minds eye
as lazy water rolls
toward me, lapping
my feet, lollygagging
along, slowly strolling
towards the bay
as I salute pilots
navigating this
most friendly
course

Music Selection:
Grant Green, Moon River

Cambridge MA
7/7/91
jbm

some cast lines into swift rivers
or vast seas of uncertainty

while others throw nets toward
rich stores of earthly treasure

ships piloted by the heart,
steer in fruitless pursuit
of elusive schools of love

a doughty fool forever waits
to harpoon longshot luck
a happenstance filled fate

Godly men cast nets
among flocks of people,
for they alone produce the
bountiful yields of bursting nets

for sons of Jonah and Ahab
a fruitless watch is foretold
self love’s only triumph
is a loveless end

remain a solitary fisher
gliding by on birch bark canoe
minding a compass of faith

Taj Mahal
Fishin Blues

jbm
NYC
4/9/89

Buildings are like men's ****** qualities...

I surmise as I sit in the shadow of the WTC.

I wonder why two?

One may have been too revealing,
to telling, alone, pornographic...

no mask to that...

I, on the 33rd floor of a Cortlandt St. nag
still get a full eye fill,

but not for long because they ***** anew always,
around my view...

a beautiful Hudson energizing the battery with
fresh flows is forever...

but not for my view...

I wonder who is building that long skinny one?
What about this short fat one?
Who's ******* is this?

I assume its a man's
it is a man's world...

little windows on the Hudson,
I spy natures *****...

James Brown;  
Man's World

jbm
9/85
nyc

Your fatal wounds
and soul's dis-membership
from your body
is not apparent...

As the parade passes
I remember you as you
looked on the finest day
of your life...

That is the image
etched in my memories,
like you are in the midst
of your finest day...

Politicians lead the parades
waving to the masses from
luxurious limos...

We elected them and they channel
our focus as if to say;

"I am what this day is all about".  

Our democratic institutions remain
strong thanks to sacrificial veterans...

What does my loved
one have to do with
that ugly toad?  

I hate that man.

Was it his vote
that condemned
my son
to an early grave?

Get away!

Don't steal the sunshine from my
son's face with your small shadow.

Tom Jones:
Green Grass of Home

jbm
Veterans Day
1987
NYC

a shooting star is born
from the bleakness
of the heavenly spheres

racing to earth
the flashing streak sears
a burning path across the sky

at dazzling speed
it accelerates, slashing
the porous atmosphere
like a laser bolt from
Zeus's own hand

then evaporates
into the nothingness
of the midnight sky

the universe remains
little changed from its
advent and passing

Charlie Parker:
Star Eyes

jbm
Catskills, NY
8/88

i am a buoy of flesh and bones
my soul is cast iron steel
my heart a brass bell

i float and bob atop the morass
of flailing humanity

steeped in fathoms of angst and guilt,
tried and tired from terrible currents
of an endless midnight swim

waves of time rain over my head

through the roar of crashing surf,
and rushing rising tides,
my solemn ring pierces
the misty din to alert
attentive ears

Duke Ellington:
Ring Dem Bells

Charlie Parker
Miles Davis:
Sippin At Bells

jbm
Nantucket, MA
8/90

Goin to New England for a couple of weeks
won't have to deal with any NYC creeps
I'll be livin in a cabin on a White Mountain peak
Layin low, coolin my jets in some splashy creek
it's been a ****** of a summer, so to speak
Though in August I had a little hot streak
9/12 I'm back, and won't be meek
to **** the numbers with the havoc that I wreak

Mose Allison:
Your Mind is on Vacation

jbm
8.25.86
NYC

in football it's Dallas
with it's lone silver star

in baseball it's Atlanta
Ted's Super Station reaches far

basketball is a toss up
between east and west coast

the Lakers have flashy Magic
Irish Celtics of Bird they boast

hockey is another story
the Canadians have it there

but Gretzky's defection to LA
is an answer to a King's prayer

Lion King:
I Just Can't Wait to Be King

jbm
NYC
9/15/88

sports fan, sports fan
have you heard
Brett is ******
for gettin the bird

he hit a shot
clear outta da Bronx
the Yankee's lost
and raised a point

about pine tar
pine tar on the bat
too much sap
ain't where its at

George broke a rule
by an inch or so
so the ump took back
Brett's big blow

a royal frenzy
soon broke out
they took Brett's stick
the fan did shout

Pine Tar, Pine Tar
on the bat
you wipe too much
you can't do that

Youtube Video:
Pine Tar Game

jbm
Oakland
9/15/88

The
Decider-in-Chief
made
another
hard
decision,
rebebilitatin
a debilitating
Gaddafi.

The
Agog
Decider
sleekly
peeked
into the
bleak
soul
of the
master
Bedouin.

The
Pious
Decider
peered
pretty
deeply,
so its
hard to tell
what his
arcane
rebelations
revealed.

Some say
The
Jaundiced
Decider,
saw the
desert
bleeding
deliciously
malicious
sweet crude
onto the
scabby
tongues
of
Halliburton
Executives
while
Big Time
Vice
Dickey Boy
******
a petrol
nozzle
dry,
licking
the dripped
drops
that
drizzled
from the
shoot
hole,
so as
not to waste
a precious drop
to satiate
the black
viscous
goo
coursing
through
the ebony
veins of his
chingling
heart.

Others
say
The
Condoning
Decider
sized up
the man
and saw
a brother-in-arms
in the fight
against
The Evil Doers;
yet failed to
see the
revolting
obscenities
his new
comrade-in-arms
inflicted
upon his
own body
politic.

The
Forgetful
Decider,
blessed
with amnesia
forgot
Lockerbie and
applauded
BP's royal
court of
justice
for
pardoning
all perps.

The
Oblivious
Decider's
near
sightedness
failed to
foresee
a brewing
blow-back
amassing
in the
desert
winging
its way
home
on the
blasting
sands of
a blistering
Saharan
sirocco.

The
Pollyannish
Decider
envisioned
g­rand
spectacles,
only happy
visions of
Beyonce,
JZ, Usher
and the
Def Jam
Buddha
Russell
Simmons
yodeling
filthy
lucre
tunes,
sending
g­iggling
tweets
while
partying
down
with
Muammar's
posse
of martinets
and
way cool
far out
crazy
execs
drunk
with the
power
that blinds
the eye to
all discernment.

The Decider
decides.

Music Selection:
Lady Ga Ga
Beyonce,
Telephone

Oakland
3/3/11
jbm

On the banks
of the
Delaware

where
memories
of Valley
Forge's
dire winter
encampments
still linger

where sons
and daughters
of liberty

shook off
a mid-winter
rigor mortis

risking the
slow death
of complacency

to seize
the prized
celestial
article of
freedom

America's
Labor
Movement
amassed
in the
streets of
Trenton

a vigilant
battalion of
General
Washington's
invading
brigands

speaking
in tongues
of radical
insistence

armed with
the might
of truth
demanding
respect and
equitable
treatment

from the
lordships
of state
doing the
bidding of
527 llc's

Unionists
stand
firmly
on the
shoulders,
walking
in the
tracks
rowing
the boats
of militant
forebears

pledging to
fight on
in a battle
that never ends

to
liberate
the
******
river
of justice

hijacked
by the
privilege
of plenty

diverted
into
culverts
of greed

a
gluttonous
few
siphoning
off
the spoils
of liberty

engorging
themselves
leaving
workers
wanting

democracie­s
require
the cup
of liberty
to be
shared by
all

The Spirit
of
General
Washington
has
mustered
new
legions
to turn
back the
entitlistas

the
pelting
rain of
lies, the
flinging
arrows of
ridicule
will not
deter
the workers
trooping
for
justice

the
fight
to roll
back
the ugly
tide of
greed
coursing
through
the veins
of America
despoiling
the blood
of our
democracy
is on

the
explosive
dynamite
of struggle
will blast
the dam
of inequity
to bits
unleashing
the river
of justice
to roll
again


Music Selection:
Pete Seeger:
Solidarity Forever

Trenton
2/25/11
jbm

New York City has just published
the Doomsday Book.
Highlights include:

* They will ration life saving medicine.
Sarah was right. They have convened
the death panels.

* They will enforce quarantines. They will
separate the infected from the unaffected;
hoping the infection of fascism
spreads into the mind
of the entire
body politic.

* They plan the destruction
of domestic animals.
Even little Joey's
Teddy Bear will not
be spared. As
we speak,
its furry head
lays upon their
guillotines of
justice.

* They will seize property. The
thieves running the county
are carefully planning
a final plunder.

* They will search our homes.
They see us living in our
glass cages. There is
nothing left to monitor;
but we will all be
compelled to make
daily entries
into our
Facebook
accounts.

John Q Public
believes these
measures
are good.
The terrorists
frighten his
banal
imagination.
His sound
reasoning likes
the idea of
another brick for
our prisons of fear,
another bar
to strengthen our
cages of *******.

Music Selection:
Rory Gallagher,
Walk on Hot Coals

2/16/11
Oakland
jbm

shut down the gubmint
it ain't workin no more
no end to tax and spend
libs gonna make us all po

shut down the gubmint
don't matter nun no how
unessential personnel
will enjoy a day off now

the gubmint don't funkshun
the gubmint is no good
the gubmint should go away
we'll manage our own hoods

everyone grab yer shotgun
fill the bathtub with water
firemen and cops on furlough
perps we'll give no quarter

the skools we can do widout
common cents is all we need
only teacher unions will be angry
publik skoolin just a liberal creed

won't mail the SS checks
financing lifestyles of idle poor
dis socializm needs stoppin
kick the commies out the door

national parks should be solded
only tree huggers will care
Koch Bros will snap em up
cut trees, strip mine, run job fairs

as long as the Army
keeps bombin the Tallyban
we be safe from Evil Doers
its all in God's good plan

so shut down the gubmint
its time to slash and burn
Teabaggers to the rescue
Obamanation gotta learn

You Tube Music Video:
PO PO Shut Us Down!

Led Zeppelin
When the Levee Breaks


Oakland
4/5/11
jbm

the committee
has convened
(kangaroos corralled)

the agenda
is set
(scapegoats framed)

the politicos
are preened
(perfect patriots)

hair coiffed
teeth whitened
(fangs sharpened)

correct talking
points bulleted
(minds closed)

puffed chests
perfectly postured
(bombastic bravado)

freedom fighters
stand firm
(Constitution usurpers)

American flag
lapel pins
(sparkling bright)

liberty's spirit
and tolerance
(roundly condemned)

special interests
are watching
(payola earned)

partisan lines
clearly drawn
(democracy doomed)

Music Selection
Cream: Politician

Oakland
10/1/10
jbm

a million ears listening
no one hears a thing
basest news a big surprise
ignominy is crowned king

a squander of treasure
best minds laid to waste
price of fear forever accrues
funds the purpose of the place

eyes of a diligent nation
brains filled with briny mush
ears clogged and waxen
expertise in smelling ****

central intel brainiacs
the heft of heavy dudes
a sordid nest of vipers
collecting despots dues


Music selection:
Radiohead,
Artificial Intelligence

Oakland
2/14/11
jbm

we gathered in a lighted tower
of a lower Manhattan promontory
seminarians listen
to discursive ramblings
of bank industry experts
on the finer points of
Basel II
Tier Three
op risk

towards a better better
best practice
we pique our ears to hear
the critical
dispassionate annunciations
of expert expertise

a panel of practitioners
a panoply of knowledge
networking opportunities
and hands on insight
we are granted
institutional affirmation
nesting warmly
in a corporate cocoon
13 flights up
off West Street
10 bucks a seat
30 for non-members

we settle
in soulless white rooms
divided by long
horizontal wall panels
bleached of all humanity
visualizing phantasmagoric vistas
of changing regulatory landscapes
in strait backed chairs
resembling the blanco armor acrylics
of Imperial Stormtroopers

on watch for Black Swans
the panel's moderator incants
if one appears
we told you so
if one fails to materialize
risk managers
have earned their dear keep
seminarians chuckle

the dais backdrop
a massive SONY plasma screen
stares down seminarians
with ruminative bleakness.
no digital blips or power points
will convey any meaning
turn a clever phrase
sprout a statistic
paint a pretty picture,
just the plain spoken word
of highly credentialed
speakers with bios
many paragraphs long
confers license to speak

the screens blackness
a perfect counter point
to a rooms spare whiteness
and pedestrian furbishment
save a day glow Warhol Print
of the heroic MTV moon walker
and a predominant majority
of Far Eastern attendees

questions from the floor
drizzle the panel
tied tongues
use tight selective language
of lexiconic colloquialisms
speaking a queer vernacular
of erudite bombastic bunk

questions are mumbled
with increasingly greater acuity
dancing around bank meltdowns
and global economic catastrophes
with a self anointed smug absolution
and poignant failure to acknowledge
a failures paternity
pink elephants and 800 pound gorillas
remain dance hall wallflowers


to be sure language evolves
the moderator instructs
as regulatory guidelines converge
to address market flux.
Is everyone comfortable with
the current acronyms
we devised
to describe our
present situation
best laid plans
and timely initiatives
to safeguard capital adequacy
and institutional solvency
right here in our own
little tower of Babel?

My tie is too tight
to clear my throat
I can't ask my question
of apples to apples
dust to dust
and oranges to tangerines
while the halting speech of others
is broken up
by timely ring tones
from Jeopardy
and Gene Autry's
Don't Fence Me In

every once in awhile
a chuckle is raised
we laugh about the score
in this inside baseball game
of capital requirements
regulatory Nexis
and smart *** traders
plying bold arbitrage strategies
blowing us back to Basel I
after the global bank implosion
oh the hilarity
of credit crises and crashes
the jokes on us
the joke-sters R US

some begin to
urgently finger blackberries
sending confident commands
to be dutifully carried out
by young back office minions
impatiently waiting
hanging on every word
of unintelligible texts
eagerly biding time
to take
the solid senders warm seat
in these cold blanched rooms

Closing the seminar
the moderator's summation
offered the thought
that her fondest hope remains
scenario analysis,
stress testing
and the new
emerging paradigms
will become
embedded in
risk management
best practices
and that fewer regulators
will be needed to regulate
and we will continue
to be employed
(nervous chuckles)
clapping
reception for networking
to follow
questions
and
cocktails
in the next room

I move quickly
to fill my plate with brie
English tea crackers
and a smoky tangy cheese.
A fellow seminarian
approaches me.
He smiles and asks,
Whats your name?
What do you do?
I tell him
and ask the same.
He says he is 50
and unemployed.
He sounds unsure
and frightened.
I bite into a chunk
of exotic cheese.
******* crumbs fall
onto the lapel
of my freshly pressed
pinstripe suit.

Music Selection:
Miles Davis
Red China Blues

jbm
NYC
03/03/09

Lou Costello’s
bronze semblance
dipped and danced atop
his granite pedestal
spinning miasmatic tales
of enigmatic hope and
resplendent labor

“the sweet
unbounded
expectation of
hope once
surged down
this city’s streets”
... said Lou

"I was a self made man
until someone thought up
the idea to cast a bronze
caricature of me and
bolt it to this grand rock”

nostalgia
is the boldest form
of fiction
culling from the past
the things hoped for
in the now

“growing up
here
I clipped school,
played ball,
rolled drunks
and fought
nickel ante
prize fights
to get my
daily bread,
I literally
punched my
way out
of this town”

a smith smelts a
batch of liquid bronze
pouring molds full of
a fervent wish
a madman's delusion
a priestly promise
a Pollyannaish illusion?

baskets overflowed
gushing hope, offered
at the holy altars by
honorable workers

it was said that
a morsel of labor
could feed 5000
starved families
breeding hopes as large
as a half cup of water

hope
the size of a
mustard seed sparked
recovery of 1000 sick children
dying from the Asian Flu
at St. Joe's

hope
willed an end to war’s slaughter
which ironically was bad for
Paterson's war profiteers
forcing layoffs
sparking labor actions

hope
ignited conflagrations firing
the resurrection of dead industries
lately there is a lot of hope
circling this one

miracles spring
from the pronounced
lips of trembling hearts

the hopeful amassed
slogging forth on bloodied toes
along razor thin slices
of expectation
hoping to begin again
eager to build anew

new starts sometimes
grow old fast soon
hope expires
winging back home
on broken wings of
misspent labor

hoping for the snow to stop
a lump of coal to last
the labor of a budding crocus
rewarded, breaking through
the hard crust of winters end
blooms for a day then expires

hope is a beggars wish
gods give yearnings heft
prayers earnestly chanted
willing paradigm shifts

prayers of absolution
play the angles
calculating odds
of probabilistic mathematics
a sure thing long shot
the prayers of the
righteous availeth much

we hoped for jobs
we hoped for leisure
we hoped for love
we hoped for labor
we hoped for rest
we hoped for luck
we hoped for a life
wealth health blest

laughing at our follies
crying over defeats
our city a tragic star
a comedy of schemes

our
hope and labor
is the keystone of
our self construction
cornerstone of
a grand city’s edifice
its negation our
deconstruction

tragedy and comedy
invested and spent
falling and laughing
foibles and faith

belief trumps evidence
happenstance slays surety
horror and beauty
compose a life's mural
nothing happens
by mistake

learning and ignorance
fate and chance
the risk of randomness
expiration dates arrive fast

predetermination a bold
conviction, suspicion,
intention a splendid  
kismet  

banality becomes
sublime  
laughter is ******

...the mystery is in
the loam... says WCW
...the finished product
is what I’m after...

“what the
**** are you
doing here?"
the bronzed Louis
gagged

"Hey Abbott
look at these clowns
in the yellow plastic
garbage bags!

bobbing in a sea of
midnight mist

a posse of
neon clowns
donning glad bags
on the most dismal
night of the year

twinkling under the
gloom of my playgrounds
faltering streetlamps

“twinkling targets
easily tracked,
a trained eye,
a steady hand
could pick you off
at a thousand paces
what gives?

“what the **** are
you doing here?

“what the **** am I doin
here for that matter?”

“the second question
is easy to answer,

“I’m Paterson’s
finest son....

...“Wherever he is tonight, I want him to hear me," and went on with the show. No one in the audience knew of the death until after the show when Bud Abbott explained the events of the day, and how the phrase "The show must go on" had been epitomized by Lou that night....

"Mr. Bacciagalupe
he use to live on
Cianci Street

“who’s on first?
what’s on second?
I don’t know is on third?
was a riddle one recited
to get into his speak

“his Ginnie Red was legendary
and no one was ever known to
die from drinking his bathtub gin”

the old world ways
are made new
by the arrival of
new old worlds
supplanting old Italiano

“where is all the goodwill capital
we invested in this place?”

successive generations
thought it best to export
the capital of the
expired generations
elsewhere

it was ferried
across the river,
crossed the
city boundaries,
leaving for Wayne
and the fairer lawns
of Wyckoff and the
greener grasses of
Franklin Lakes

all the old wise guys
died off or were sentenced
to life by their children,
some still doin time in
old age homes in
Rockaway

all the sport clubs
boarded up but their spirit
lingers like an espresso
ring on a post slurp
demitasse cup

“hell my body is buried
in Hollywood but here
I am, holding court in
Costello Park
talking with you
knuckleheads
a baseball bat
my royal scepter
a brown derby
my crown, truly a
King of Nothing,
Lord of All

“the soul of my city is
eternal,  like the comedy
of tragedy or is it
tragic comic?

“here I remain
omnipresent,
spinning about
frozen forever
in a magnificent
bronze age,
erected to my likeness
beholding me
to stand witness
to this litter strewn park
decorated with corrugated
Big Mac boxes, plastic
Big Gulp tops and discarded
rubbers bagging the ****
of this cities arrested
citizenry”

never actualized
never naturalized
citizenship denied
at the commencement
of ejaculatory flows
of joy

unfulfilled spirit
of citizenship
never to experience
the splendor
of yesterday’s
modernist
metropolis and
Lou’s stand up
routines

“look at that John
over there, that guy
wheezing like a
ruptured blacksmith’s
billow, pounding away
laboring to get off

“the poor little
******* just hopes it
will end soon

it does
**** he’s done

I” knew that guys
grandfather,
getting off
runs in the family
and remains one
of the few things
that draws the progeny back
to the old neighborhood

“you can still glimpse
snippets of the old ways
rising in new ways

“an Armenian
sports club
around the corner
is a new
incarnation of
the old Neapolitan
social clubs that
once demarcated the
neighborhoods

“these days
great grandsons
of once proud
Sons of Italy
come back to the
old neighborhoods
begging for hand-jobs
from crack ******

“welcome to my
burlesque world

“since the Gumbas
moved to Franklin Lakes
the wannabe wise guys
became ***** whipped
dumb *****
making ***** of
themselves with
their painted ****-job
Jersey Housewives

“they ***** their families
out for a bit parts on
MTV and a free lunch
at the Brownstone

“their grandfathers
labored long hours
to assure the well being
of their families in the expectant
hope of a better shot at life
but the children squandered
the hard earned bequest lovingly
bequeathed by reverent forebears

“in the wee hours
one can sometimes hear
a weeping chorus
of concrete Madonnas
musing melodious lullabies
to the sleeping
Lombard's lying
in uneasy repose at
Holy Sepulchre Cemetery

“they twist in their graves
dreaming of a last dance with the
Lady of Unending Sorrows
at weddings for unrepentant
wayward daughters and prodigal sons

“its small
recompense for a
lifetime of an
honest day’s work”

the dashed hope
of squandered labor
begets a city of ruin”

at the
parks northern corner
the Salvation Army’s
rumbling bivouac rests
in a dreamless sleep
its residents
patiently waiting to
inherit this city
abandoned by
nuevo wise guys

this tragedy
is all comedy
the comedic hope
of tragic labor
buried snoring
the millenniums away
awaiting resurrection
day

Lou was getting ******...
“get outta my park

“the artists
in the rehabbed
factories across
the street
are resting

“nothing much
going on there

“if you're hoping
to find some
homeless slogs
head over to the river
you should find some there”....

Music Selection:
Frank Sinatra, High Hopes

jbm
Oakland
3/26/13

Holy Monday
walking with
my dog in
the burbs

I spied
a palm frond
laying by
the curb

still moist
and pliant
fresh to
touch

what
blasphemer
discarded this
icon beloved
so much?

one day
removed
from
Palm
Sunday
glory

does the
heathen who
disposed of it
know this
precious
leaf’s
story?

it was then
I recalled
its reason
for being

its a carpet
for a King’s
footsteps
its not for
keeping

so there
it lay
where
it should
be

as my
dog and I
resumed
our closer
walk with
Thee

Music Selection: Willie Nelson
Just a Closer Walk With Thee

Oakland
4/2/12
jbm

i dream of poems
without verses

almost sleeping
almost awake

i occupy the
ubiquitous places

ebbing into
the vortex of time

with no clocks
ticking

tracking absent
footprints

on opiated loam
of flowing ether

telling eyes
breathing
vapors of me

embracing all
that was

with no
knowledge
of good or bad

the spirit of
judgement
sleeps

as
i dream of
poems
with
no verses
no words
just poems



Music Selection:
Pink Floyd, Breathe

jbm
Oakland
6/4/12

NY Hip Hop
Gold Express
Bling Shop
Afro Brothers
proprietorship

buyin and sellin
filthy lucre
of down hard
Gat packin
Gangstas
on the down low
throwin down
fallin hook
line and stinker

just a bunch
of lil fishies
wigglin at the end
of golden chains

its all about
the bling baby
all about the bling

"I pity the fool"
saith Mr. T
the potentate of
soul and gold
who ain't
down with
the cool jewels
of righteous
B Teamers
arrested by
the silk rope
of glitzy discos
bribing bouncers
with an
earnest Jackson
to *** rush
the vanity faire
of bumping
A Listers

Or was it
Def Jam
Buddhas
minting
coin on
MTV?

exploiting
misogyny
and ghost
face killas
NWAs
slugging cases
of Kristol
blowing
fat spliff
smoke
up the *** of
Phat Farm
kids in
the hood
shooting
silver
bullets at
the man
takin baths
in tubs
of fifties
lighting up
with crisp
C Notes
rollin
through
life
in black
Escalades
its silver
spinners
twisting fast
round
corners
where
being cool
went blind
and
Coolie High
homies
still tip
a sip
for the
brothers
who ain't
there

Today
its all about
the raised fist
of power to
the P Diddy
fighting
the power
of the people
as leggy
Beyonce
warbles
songs
for the
posse
of a
Libyan
Dictator
whose
blood
money
pays
a cool
mil
cover
for a
New Years
Eve
tune

Its all about
the bling
baby

All about
the bling
baby, all
about the
bling.

NY Hip Hop
Gold Express
Best Prices in
Trenton Since
1997

You Tube Video:
Gil Scott Heron
Ain't No Such Thing As Superman

Trenton
2/25/11
jbm

How spry and light her footsteps touch
Tippy toes tap a dance, a song of self
She knows we watch and sing her melodies
Arms reaching upward to praise love enveloping
She stretches her head back safe within her house
She Dervishly circles round and about
A dancer she'll be when she comes of age
Already a star on her home stage
Dipping and swooping her knees bend low
Just a lil bitty toddler putting on a show
A music box plays Au Clair De La Lune
Igniting an excited prance through the room
A flair for the dramatic is evident here
Oh, Meggie Meggie Meggie our most beloved dear

Music Selection:
Claude Debussy
Clair De Lune

jbm
Oakland
10/86

Long broken lines
Not even straight
Honk the sound
Yech the smell
The pace is maximus haste

Mr. Earl sing Speedo
Yes indeedo

Death to the left
Yes death to the left
Stay out of the fast lane
Splat
Skid marks abound
Churned rubber flares
Bend and fade to nowhere

Get to work
Do the deal
Shop your brains out
Think not at the wheel
Byways of life
Filled with strife
Where does it lead?
What does it mean?

Lord!
Mercy
Mercy
Merci


Music Selection:
The Cadillacs, Speedo

jbm
GWB
NJ/NYC
10/84

I want to put on Coltrane
to experience the verbs
of a sweet bastardization
oh kind whippoorwill
sing to me

jbm
Oakland, NJ
09/86

Music Selection:
John Coltrane
Wise One

*** inta a funky blues roll
swing silent low piano
trippin down tinky tink keys
stumble the mumbled muffled horns
wha wha the humble orchastra roars
it swings a choo choo
tracks changin
bass a bumpin
du du du du
walkin through the room
Spoon croons a bellowed ballad
an Ella cat do a hair raisin ****
tink tink
you don't have ta think
you know what you feel
dis blues is fo real

For Prez

jbm
10/12/86
NYC

Music Selection:
Count Basie Band with
Ben Webster, Roy Eldridge and Jimmy Rushing

I Left My Baby

Turn on the radio

Abstract Jazz

I like the notes

I feel the mood move

Plenty of space between these sounds

My mind shifts to scenes

Put it in second and turn on 145th

People slowly striding blighted streets

Seems a natural rhythm

A cadence of life

Some are beautiful

A piano plays sweet blues chops

Take me to that place!

A noticeable cymbal…… tssssss

Oh Mule, drone you agonies of pleasurable life

Focus it finely

Sax takes back with rage and logical statement

No more sax, too definitive a declaration

Clap Clap it was live

No cigarettes

I love this song

Her voice grooves me.

“But it’s not what you want.”

Offer me you

Please

Sax liberates

green light

jbm
Harlem, NYC
9/2/86

Music Selection:
Gil Scott Heron-Brian Jackson Midnight Band
New York City

Duke said,
“People pray in many different languages
and God hears them all.”

I’m equally a Jew and Muslim,
both living in perfect peace within me.

I’m a little bit Baptist and a little bit Episcopal.
I yearn to swim in the living waters,
and hunger for the cup and bread.

I’m more of a Quaker then a Buddhist.
Only because I’m American and I can’t speak good Chinese yet.
But Buddha’s Lamp is my constant companion,
illumining my every step in this dark world.

I’m also equally composed of east and west Indies
and sometimes even druid.
The Great Spirit and Tantric arts
remain mysteries to me.
I only know them by feeling.

And yes our Afro Heritage.
The drums, the whistle, the dance,
synchronizes our heart beat
to The Beneficent One’s finger taps.
Yes we celebrate The Holy Spirit
with cymbal, voice and drum.

I am a full dues paying member
to the 2nd Hoboken Chapter
of the Unitarian Universal Catholic Church Respectively.
We meet down the block from Sinatra’s Synagogue.
We are all apostles and responsible
for our small spaces that we rent here on earth.

I know I’m 100% Zoroastrian.
I am mesmerized by the fire.
My heart aches for the light.
I tend tiny candles
and listen for the lonely fire
of Coltrane’s sax.

I’m a nun and
a Thelonious Monk.
We run an inn for weary and lost travelers.
We build hospitals to cure the infirm;
and schools to teach the golden rule of love.
We try to do things differently.

Dizzy practiced the Behai faith.

“OOM BOP SHE BAM” I pray.

Music Selection:
Dizzy Gillespie,
Swing Low Sweet Cadillac

jbm
Oakland
12/26/98

Little Jazz on my birthday
Kings Crown Radio
special every year

Schaap lays down
the JATP grooves

All the tracks of this
Steeltown cat

A perennial
birthday bash

Takes me Uptown
With Roy and Anita

Strolling arm and arm
Singing bout a city

Checkin out the sights
Knockin me a kiss

On the fat lobe lips
Of my eager ear

Ole Little Jazz
Hittin the high note

Blowin somethin cool
Playing with the great cats

He’s one himself
A lion of the bandstand

You can hear a him growl
When he blows that horn

Or a prissy ***** purr
Fine and mellow
on a bouncy ballad

Or check a lonely tomcat
moanin the blues
As he swings on down
some dark alley in Chicago

Yea, he’s one cool cat
this Eldridge dude
One cool Little Jazz cat


Paramus
1/30/99
jbm

Music Selection:
Roy Eldridge, Sunday

Some of my
earliest
memories
are of you.

I can hear
your soft
Irish lilt
humming
into my
drowsy ear,
waking me
to a morning
filled with
sunshine.

Half a
century later
I still see us
sitting at your
kitchen table,
I’m a six year old,
spooning warm
tea, dribbling
a soft boiled
egg onto a
piece of
buttered toast.

I remember
smiling at
the laughter
you and grandpa
enjoyed at my
proclamation
that I ate
three breakfasts
every morning.

You were my
connection
to the wisdom
and ways
of the old world;
extolling the luck
of the shamrock,
the lore of
the shillelagh,
recounting
the haunting
mysteries of
the banshees,
the mischief
of leprechauns
and the magic
of nymphs.

You were my
passport  to
a gathering
of the proud
O'Brien and
Cook clans.

You opened
my ears
to the thrill
of distant
Philadelphia
cousins
crooning
folk tunes to
happy bagpipes
while my
widening eyes
watched young
Colleen's
ecstatically jig
the night away
in full regalia
with stiff armed
step dances.

You are
my maternal
cartographer,
your DNA
etched the
map of
Dublin onto
my face.

You are the
wellspring
of the Liffe
that courses
through my
veins.

You were the
cook who
conjured the
nourishing
aromas of
a Sunday’s
sustenance
from a boiling
***; simmering
ham, cabbage
and potato to
succulent
perfection.

It is a
meal
that still
sustains
me.

The warmth
of your apartment,
the dainty doilies
and light filled
lace curtains, the
spoken hopes for a
sweepstakes ticket
and the hushed
murmurs of deep
sadness the
devastating toll
alcoholism
extracts from
a troubled family
steeps deeply
within me.

I see you
kneeling in
prayer;
the muse
of your brogue
whispers endless
strings of Rosary
incantations.

Angelic fingers
anoint each
blessed
alabaster bead
with the piety
of an honest
soul.

You
endlessly
cycled
through
the family’s
litany of
sorrow and
hope.

With a
matrons
fortitude and
an inner strength
women possess
to bear the
weightiest of
burdens; you
sought the
resolution
of release
from the
crush
of worry
and woe,
by diligently
lifting these
delicate
hosannas
to the
Mother
of Sorrows
compassionate ear.

Your petitions to
the Blessed ******
as intercessor,
allays all fears that
your light prayers
will not be lost in
the incomprehensible
clatter resounding
amongst the
heavenly spheres.

You knew
The Mother of
Perpetual Help
understands
and will
ask her
Son
to whisk all
burdens away
with the flick
of his feather
of absolution.

When your
daughter
became
ill you came
to mother us.

You fed us
Thanksgiving
Soup for breakfast,
lunch and dinner
till the last drop
of gratitude was
consumed.

You made sure
homework
assignments
were completed.

You drilled me
with spelling quizzes
made difficult by
my inability
to decipher the letter
H through your Gaelic
Haayche.  

Your exclamations
to “Jesus, Mary and
Joseph” was fair warning
to give Grandma Tippy
extra sway.

You were fond of
cats and took pity
on our mangy
Tom sympathetically
imploring us to
“look at the face of it”
before laying down
another fresh
saucer of milk.

It took me
years to understand
why you would
commence to
polish my
mothers tarnished
silver plated tea service
as the first thing you would
undertake upon
entering the house.

As a house keeper
for the wealthy,
the sparkle
of your daughters
silver plated tea service
was confirmation
that class mobility
and your enduring belief
in America’s economic
democracy was real.

Your daughters tea service
was just as worthy and
on equal footing with
any tea service adorning
Englewood’s finest homes.

At bedtime your
silhouette would
would fill the
doorway of
my bedroom.

The lullaby of
your blessings
filled the room.

From that
safe distance
you would
dip a brush
into a jar
and sprinkle
holy water
onto your
grandchildren.

When you passed
away I beheld
your magnificent
presence in a
state of eternal
repose.  You wore
a blue flowered dress.  
Your clasped hands
held a Rosary.  

I surmised
your closed eyes
were filled with
the visions
of rest and the
soft light of a
glowing glory.

Your lips gently
smiled.  I knew
you were in the
tender arms
of your loving Lord.

The Blessed Mother
now tended you,
coddling a newly
arrived saint
in the loving embrace
of a mother’s
unconditional love.

I thank you and
bless you my beloved
Grandma Tippy.  I am
caring for your
Rosary Beads.
I consider them
a precious gift
and most
valued treasure.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day
Margaret "Grandma Tippy" Minehan
Love Jimmy

Music Selection:
Bill Evans, Danny Boy

Oakland
3/17/12
jbm

They're
doing it again.

They're gonna stuff
the corpse of
Hugo Chavez and
put it on display
in a glass case.

Why?

They did it to Lenin.

For 80 years he lay
on a bed of flowers
in a glass topped coffin
lazin away the days
in the Kremlin Wall
before they locked
him away behind
closed glasnost doors.

For those eighty years
Lenin's comrades
paraded his
corpse around
like an extended
Weekend at Bernie's;
raising old Ilyich
to mouth every
dictatorial diatribe
uttered by the
deathly stale
bread breath
of Stalin and all
the petty knockoffs
that followed him.

V.I. did a lot of
talking for a
dead man, serving
the dictatorship
of the proletariat
with valor and
distinction.

They did it
to Mao,
reminding all
happy Chinese Proles
that great peoples
revolutions must
dutifully mind
the unerring
instruction of
the secular deity;
resting assured
that progress is an
historical
dialectical
inevitability
proceeding apace
until classlessness
is realized in every
Hunan rice paddy,
Shanghai noodle
factory, Mongol
Steppe Village
and Buddhist
Tibetan Temple
in the glorious
workers paradise.

As of this writing Mao
hasn't been heard from
since the
Gang of Four
walked the last
Capitalist Roader plank.

Lady Mao
indignant to the end,
coolly quipping final zingers
from the Third Edition
of the Little Red Book as
last death sentence breaths
escaped her charcoal stained
great leaping forward
lungs.  
  
As always
Deng Xiaoping
got the final
laugh, counting
heavenly
Renmibis;

his yuan
piling up faster
then the number
of displaced
peasants
clogging the
streets of
The People's
Republic
new and improved
discount cities
beggin for jobs
at a toxic
iPod
factory.

Crafty
Deng  bought
the copy rights to
Mao's Quotations
his profit driven
start-up
fills
fortune cookies
with the
Chairman's
wise maxims
eagerly consumed
by the country's
burgeoning
class of
happy
lunch time
capitalists.

By the
waters of the Nile
they stuffed dead
pharaohs with
with onions,
spices and
frankincense
and buried em
in billion dollar
pyramids.

When a pharaoh  
crossed the River
Styx the expense
was justified
because of his
station in life.

The undertaking
also served as a
shovel ready
infrastructure
improvement
initiative for
idling slaves.

The humongous
public works project
didn't do much
for the economy back then
because the wages of
slaves don't go too far;
but through the
expanse of
expired millennia
the strange fruit of
chattel workers
is a proven boon
for the tourist trade in the
Valley of the Kings.

Its a bit unfortunate
that enterprising
grave robbers daring
the risk of the mummies curse
and imperialist archaeological
pillagers wouldn't let the
league of buried
Pharaoh's -like
young King Tut-
just
RIP.

..and then
there's the case of
Sweet Jesus...

Half of America
believes him to be
Chairman Emeritus
of the GOP,
authoring a gospel
of righteousness
in the party platform,
sprinkling holy water
on the hardest edges of
free market capitalism.

Though
his body was
lifted to heaven
on Ascension Day
Jesus
remains
the main course
at the festive Eucharist
every Sunday morning.  

Pious padres
transubstantiate
sacrosanct wafers
say its the Lords Table
but they act more
like its their own.  

Wrapped
in riddles
within sacred
paradoxes
exclusionary
catholic churches
refuse spiritually
starved pilgrim's
slices of happy meals
if they ain't down
with their
righteous
creed.

I recall
Jesus feeding 5,000
soul staved people with
seven loaves and five fishes
and had enough left overs
to feed every famished
woman and child
in Biafra;

don't remember Jesus
checking membership cards
before filling their bellies
with wholesomeness;

but the
pietistic pastors
parsing out
the holy loaves
remain quick to draw
heinous crucifixes
believing in the
holy justice of  
their crossianity
to ecstatically
bludgeon a
fallen heathen...

some Muslim
fundamentalists
do the same thing

a Hidden Imam
been walking
the earth since
the death of
The Prophet
Muhammad
(PBUH)

the ubiquitous
Mahdi is around
somewhere
and when he shows
his face he'll team
with Isa
enabling the Shia's
to tell the Sunni's
I told you so
and demand
that they
stop
murdering
fellow
Muslims

I just want to
tell my brothers
and sisters in
Venezuela
that they are the body
and soul, the heart, hands
and mind of the nation

the body is theirs
the body can't be
without them.
el corpus es usted

what ever happened
from dust you have come
to dust you shall return?

and now as a
Caracas glazier
cuts a glass box
for Chavez

i say
i think its a bad idea.
it never goes well for the dead ones

and as for the living
when myth becomes history
the potentates of politics
and the priests of power
become ghoulish tyrants
that devour the lives of
the living


ERRATUM
+++

As Marx observed in the  
18th Bremaire of Louis Bonaparte

"The tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living...
he goes on to say, "history repeats itself, first as tragedy then as farce"...

I hope my Venezuelan brothers and sisters avoid the tragedy and don't fall victim to farce...

Final thoughts from Jesus:

"Wherever there is a carcass,
there the vultures will gather.
Let the dead bury the dead"

Smash the icons!
Hugo deserves his heavenly rest
he wouldn't want it any other way.

Hugo Chavez
(28 July 1954 – 5 March 2013)
Godspeed Beloved


Joan Baez & Mercedes Sosa "Gracias A La Vida"

jbm
Oakland
3/8/13

amidst Jeffersonian opulence
the Prez broke bread with his
GOP poker face friends
to solve government gridlock
and sequester predicament trends

citizens of the republic
hopeful for nonsense to cease
sat at the table asking

“would you pass
the biscuits please?”

Obama perused the wine list
boldly choosing a luscious Merlot
senators ordered the finest hors d'oeuvres
the guests were all aglow

numerous delectable dishes
were liberally splayed on the table
revelers sipped flowing vintages
wine a surefire icebreaker

sparkling crystal Lennox flutes
tinkled with convivial release
while America’s disenfranchised
voices ask

“would you pass
the biscuits please?”

chutney meat, curried hens and
sweet walnut rainbow trout
the table a horn a plenty
the guests gorged on fine cuisine
a blessed nations bounty

the feast consumed
the Senators sated
said it was some
of the finest ever served
but the taxpayers only
got a peak of the banquet  
a whiff of senators nerve
and asked

“would you pass
the biscuits please?”

the dessert cart was rolled in
with custards, cakes, creme brulee
cordials, cognac and VSOP tastes
rounded out the wholesome feast

when the check was presented
for payment all guests headed
for the door with haste
they told the waiter the bill of fare
was covered
by the guy asking...

“would you pass
the biscuits please?”

Music Selection:

Andre Williams:
Pass The Biscuits Please

jbm
Oakland
3/7/13

Basquiat brushes
dribbles bulbous breakdance blues
gilding hip hop walls

Dolphy ****** white jazz
welling crank pipe smoked black lungs
on poppin stickmen

Lorca be mute, vexed
with syllabic conundrums
mal haiku riddles

Eric Dolphy:
God Bless the Child

Federico Garcia Lorca
The Little Mute Boy


Oakland
3/6/13
jbm

it was warm
for a winters eve
unusually warm
but damp very damp
birthing a persistent
midnight mist that
crawled over everything

avenging
halogen angels
flitted down from
streetlight perches
skidding through
bare limb bars
of broken trees
roped in by sagging
telephone wires

skulking
seraphs
joined
ebullient
neon auroras
laughingly
brake dancing,
jittering away on the
pock marked rims
of hip hop streets

the fine drizzle
descending from the
black urban heavens
splayed holy water
over the bodies
of anything
that moved; and
layered mounds
of transparent beads
on all inert things
chiding those yolked
to weighty burdens
to seek relief of
a much needed
breaking point

our
slouching city
mired in a cycle
of a prolonged
historical rut
beavers away
to lift the lid
on tomorrows
tipping point
in a desperate
labor to stop
tripping over
itself...

a dinged up
Sentra’s
flashing spinners
twisted round
our dark corner
nearly clipping
our troop

inside the
yakking low-riders
scuttled along,
their hidden ***** eyes
cruising the stoops
and cyclone alleys
scoping opportunities
for the next
jolly hustle
to feed
a growing
angry fix

tonight
Mother Nature was
running a *****
to the wall third shift,
manufacturing a
stationary low
of gagging precip
churning volumes
of Vulcan smoke
conjuring
convective spirits
from all the
dim places

emanations lit
the balmy January air
rising from
stubborn gray patches
of despoiled snow
and rancid ponds
organic gutter water
composting
in distilled pools
awaiting leakage
through flotsam
clogged sewage grids

Paterson’s
litter police
could close the
city’s budget deficit
if all infractions
were properly cited
and paid in this
neighborhood

this queer elixir of
rising vapors from
evaporating snow
escaping the cracks
lining the bowels of
mordant streets
joining descending
screens of billowing mists
blurs boundaries of light,
diffusing temporal time

people and things
lose precise definition
reducing sentient beings
to moving silhouettes of gray
photographic negatives
framed in dribbling palettes
of pastel hues

our
5th Ward mission
planted in the
hub of a neighborhood
still holding on...

Old WASP’s
of St. Paul’s
long ago
winged away
from this
princely
Episcopate
principality

the abandoned
conical nest, its
chambers filled with
the mud of 50 dead rectors
precariously clings
to its shivering
boulevard corner

its endowment depleted
its earthly treasure rusting
grandiose Tiffany windows
remain the last legacy of an
opulent faith now
shamefully rattling away
in moth eaten frames

once icons of
adulatory reverence
the final sparkling asset
of a distressed religion
begs to be monetized
by flummoxed vestrymen
yearning to extend
a stewardship
over a dissipating
ESL flock

distress in the hood
parades down Broadway
in all directions

a few blocks east
a shuttered
Barnert Hospital
transfigured into an
urban enterprise zone
for health-care privateers
working overtime to
extract federal
corporate welfare
rent subsidies
dutifully fulfilling
fine print obligations of
Obamacare legislation

Old Mayor Barnert’s
namesake synagogue
once hard by
City Hall
is long gone
its absent footprint
now centered by
a thriving
White Castle

near Broadway’s end
on the outskirts
of Eastside Park
Art Deco Emanuel Temple
the last anchor
for the city’s Judaism
lies vacant
awaiting a renewed
purpose

fraught with irony
a thriving Islamic Center
stands juxtaposed
across the street
from the old
Hebrew Temple

we wonder what
will emerge
from the
hallowed chrysalis
of decommissioned
Emanuel?

rumors of a
Great Falls Art Center
trickle like a leaking faucet
failure to secure a mortgage
in the post credit
bubble pop economy
dams the possibly
of a new centers
coming to fruition

will
the city’s
changing
demography of
reverent Muslim’s
genuflecting
across the street
take time away
from prayer to
patronize a venue
offering decadent
bourgeois jazz and
risqué reviews
of retro Borscht Belt
vaudeville?

when Constantinople
became Istanbul they
converted the Christian
churches into mosques

when the Inquisitioners
drove the Moors from
Granada they converted
the Grand Mosque to
the Cathedral of the
Incarnation

what incarnations
will this city’s
twilight bring?

As Byzantine
begets
Constantinople
begets
Istanbul
the links
in the Silk Road
spanned west
to the new world
of mechanized looms
powered by
Great Falls
raceway water
and a distribution
and procurement
chain anchored
by the Morris Canal

Capitalist
modernity
begets
our Silk City
it also bespeaks
its demise

in the courtyard
of St. Paul’s
a muffled chorus
trawls the thick air

a posse of pimps
done wrangling
their stables
of $5 ******
sing reveries to
the evening haul

midnight lullabies
of corner crooners
lift a Capella hosannas
from the dark armpit
of an alley behind
the Autozone

“i said
you say
what can make
me feel this way
my girl”

juiced pimps
cashin in
livin large on
a skanks
50 cent haul

the trade in flesh
of distressed
human capital
remains a
growth industry

Music Selection:  
Temptations, My Girl

jbm
3/1/13
Oakland

On the day Liz Taylor died,
CNN called Larry King
out of retirement to
eulogize her during
the mornings
breakfast segment.
Tears were shed.

On the day Liz Taylor died,
TEPCO stated that one
of the Fukushima nuclear
reactors was on fire.
Tears of cataclysm
were shed.

On the day Liz Taylor died,
government officials warned
that Tokyo's water was
contaminated with
radiation and was not fit
for infants to drink.
Tears of anguish
were shed.

On the day Liz Taylor died,
the crew of the
USS Ronald Reagan
scrubbed the deck
clean of TEPCO
radiation.
Tears of worry
were shed.

On the day Liz Taylor died,
Oregonians rushed out to
buy potassium iodine
tablets to counteract
radiation poisoning.
Tears of affliction
were shed.

On the day Liz Taylor died,
NATO forces continued
to fire missiles and drop
bombs on Libya.
Tears of agony
were shed.

On the day Liz Taylor died,
a terrorist bomb exploded
in Jerusalem, killing one
and injuring many.
Tears of vengeance
were shed.

On the day Liz Taylor died,
the Syrian Army fired on
demonstrators
calling for reforms.
Tears of hostility
were shed.

On the day Liz Taylor died,
The USA Today reported
that during the past decade
the population of Detroit
declined by 25%.
Tears of loss
were shed.

On the day Liz Taylor died,
a dilapidated brownstone
in Philadelphia collapsed;
city officials expect
many more to occur.
Tears of distress
were shed.

On the day Liz Taylor died,
President Obama cut
short his Latin American
trip by skipping a tour of
Mayan ruins.
Tears of dismay
were shed.

On the day Liz Taylor died
the Dow Jones Industrial
Average closed
up 67.39 points.
Tears of joy
were shed.

On the day Liz Taylor died,
Elton John dedicated the song,
Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me
to the memory of his departed friend.
Tears were shed.

You Tube Music Video:
Elton John,
Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me

Lewes DE
3/23/11
jbm

twenty years later
marking two decades
I pause to think about
life’s trajectories

I know exactly
where I was
who I was with
what I was doing

I can’t say the same
with any assurance
about the location of
my current disposition

twenty years ago today
I was manning my
FT Info post
on the 18th floor
of WTC too
bashing away
on a clunky laptop
authoring a proposal
for an urgent sales call
at Lehman Brothers

when the blast went off
the concussive ******
rose through the building
like a undulating express train

i felt it enter my feet
bubbled up my legs
tangoed my coccyx
off its seat
shook my heart
clamored my arms
jumbled my brains

"*** was that!"
the lights blinked
then came back on
Patty said
“this is serious”
I said “yeah,,,
I’m busy....
go check it out”

the sirens sounded
but we still had power
i beavered away on my
LB solution

Patty came back
and the PA system
announced a mandatory
evacuation of the building
i put the finishing
touches on my
smart LB pitch
hit print and
off I went

in the hall
smoke was
leaking from
the elevator doors
wisps tickled the
ceiling
the lights
dimmed again
only emergency
illumination
lit the shivering
building

the stair wells
were clogged
with 104 floors of
workers slogging
downward

i was running
late for my
appointment
with big deal
destiny

i cut and dashed
my way downward
into the spiraling
morass

slicing past
the slow moving
old folks, nudging
recklessly inhibited
handicappers

i was running late
i was conscious of
expending time
as i flashed
by screamers
and hysterical
ladies twisting
ankles on bent
high heels
flopping
down the narrow
dim lit stairwell

i was out in
a flash

i emerged on the promenade
of the intercontinental hotel
a mass of shattered
glass sparkled in the
court below

a curious man
rousted from
his hotel
workout
stood next to
me in perspiration
tainted tees
shorts and
sneaks
flakes of
snow
drizzled down
onto his hairpiece
he said something
about the Pentagon
and concluded with
“this was bad'
and slipped away into
a squall of flurries
i took him
for CIA

my investigation
concluded
i had to make time
to be on time
i jogged
through the
swelling mass
of gagging trundlers

their face, running
noses and drooling
mouths splashed
in black paint soot

i was late
but i was making
good time
as i pushed up
Greenwich Street
a parade
of fire trucks
honked and blared
a salute to my
diligent march

arriving at my
destination
building security
whisked me away
"buildings closed
didn't you hear
the WTC was
bombed”

my analog
phone binged
“jimmy, where
are you?
are you alright?
the WTC was bombed?
why didn’t you call?
I’m so worried.”

My wife was tearing.

“I got an important
sales call. I’m doing
deals.  

I’m on my way...

Should i bring home
some Chinese from
Top Dik?”

Music Selection:
Clash: Rock The Casbah

jbm
2/26/13
Oakland

complexity
is your beauty
simplicity
your mystery
interdependence
sustains you

once upon a time
we dipped bowls
into your waters
and brought up
draughts of life

now
Skipjacks go
fathoms deep
into endless
depletion

charting
entangled
dead zones
broadening
into a sea of
inertness

your delicate
eco-essence tips
toward oblivion

effluvia farmers
layer mechanized
blankets of
nitrates on your
sunset shores
weaving
green tendrils
of algae blooms
strangling the
entanglements
of all links in
your miraculous
food chain

the EPA
proscribes
a Jenny Craig
pollution diet
to halt the
slaughter in
oxygen
challenged
dead zones
where rockfish
are garroted,
oysters get drilled
by screwworms
and azure tinted
soft shell *****
dance soft
shoe taps
lifting a tinny
chorus of sad
Piedmont Blues

the flat-lining
watersheds
voiceless
warnings
tremble
rocking the
purged nests of
screaming ospreys
in vocal protest
of a sinking
Tangier Isle
anointing it’s
tombstones
of unvisited
cemeteries with
multicolored
guano

fitting
alkaline
tributes
to the lost
inhabitants
and forgotten
languages
sinking into the
brine of gray
brackish tides

Delmarva’s fine
intra-continental
balance skewed
by the oozing
industrial swill
of Frank Perdue
chicken farms
ruling the roost of
sanctioned sustainability
tinging clear watersheds
of finger lakes
set in splints to
repair dislocations
and complex
compound fractures
that may never heal
again

Music Selection:
Taj Mahal: Fishin Blues

jbm
Oakland
6/7/12

there is no courage in dying
the inevitability of mortality
defeats all mortals

words do not evaporate
nor has a life ever been
ill spent

the ardor of love
transcends the spare
bits of temporal time
we are allotted

revealed truth is
immutable, reified
by the quill you so
aptly wielded

as you traverse
new landscapes
guided back to
the ***** of love

may your heart
be filled with
gratefulness

may your vision
remain keen

the universal mind
fills with questions
asking...

did you help the world
see with new eyes?

did you satiate a
hunger for understanding?

did thunder sound from
your melodious musings?

did your whispers bespeak
enigmatic revelations?

did you knock someone
off their horse with your
eclectic epiphanies?

did you fearlessly
love?

give selflessly?

speak honestly?

did you bind
the broken?

did you cleave
the separated?

did you repair
the breach?

did you shame
the arrogant?

did you burn effigies
of dogmas?

pierce the armor
of rust strewn ideology?

bury the corpse
of dead religions?

did you write
psalms of
affirmation?

did your
lamentations
sing the light
of hope?

did you transcend
the confines of banality?

caress the seduction
of beauty?

did you kiss
a love starved
world?

did you embrace
our common
afflictions?

rest easy my
brother

you did these things
and more

you did not
do these things
and more

your mortality is affirmed
in a sweet symphony of death

your words are
confetti sprinkled
upon the earth

each letter a seed
taking root, sprouting
a bloom of truth

a rich abundance
joyously harvested
in a celebration of
the courage of
your blessed life

Selah


Michael Reardon
left this earth 5/19/12
at the age of 56

Godspeed Beloved

Music Selection:
The Dubliners
Finnegan's Wake

jbm
Oakland
5/24/12

a snow falls upon us
blanching our being
in throes of starkness

silently we shiver
as crystallized tears
slice our eyes

icicles of
random fate
pierce our
hearts
shredding
the last strongholds
of youth blessed hope
draining reservoirs
of love into tepid
pools of blood
growing at our feet

our prayers fail
to keep the deadly
blizzards at bay
bearing this days
daily pestilence
ravaging the
fragile semblance
of our crumbling
humanity

what winds
bring this snow?

these terrible
clouds descending
upon us

drowns us in groaning
waves of desolation
with such startling
finality

for the children, teachers, parents and community of Newtown CT
Music Selection: Prokofiev, Peter and the Wolf

jbm
12/14/12
Savannah, GA