do not write much
life is hard, daytime
is usually 10 hours,
a lot mouths to feed
but that ain’t what
I got a bed to write
about

somehow my woman
did some thinking,
a hefty any of scraping
and secret saving, a buck
here, spare change squeezed
from a secret budget, in a jar
very,very well hid from being
accidentally discovered and lost
to too many little exploring fingers

we’ll never wanted and needed
a cell phone, just wasn’t need
enough, when you buying so
many little shoes l, but there
she went and bit me a watch,
used, not too fancy, and made
me feel like one million dollars

this watch, ya gotta wear to
bed, no biggie, cause it’ll tell
you how ya feeling, and how
ya sleeping and if I can, find
the time, speak my poems
into it, so they get kept for
what they call posterity

this watch informed that I was
a woken man from the hours
between 1am to bout 4am,
which zi already knew but
come daylight, man birthed
three new poems, and this
even ain’t one of them

this is more of a story, bout
the who, what and a little why,
bout me, so maybe you might
just hang round and read some


that’s all for now, that **** watch
wakes me at 6 am, though my body
does it for free, I’ll be gone in thirty
with a kiss if the good women is
still asleep, and some of the kids
will be in the upper window
to wave poppa good morning and
goodbye, which is worth double,
that’s what I tell them and it gives
me the knowledge why I exist,
what my purpose be, and a chance
to pray to Gid to keep them all safe
till I get home and squeeze the living
daylights out of them with arms that
we’re made to the heavy lifting to keep
then we’ll and happy, fed and clothed,
and give me reasons to write some more

Acceptance is sweet,
But takes time
And is hard to achieve.
It cannot be worked on like a muscle;
Quantity is not the answer,
Time is.
Acceptance comes like a timid mouse,
Rather than like a herd of elephants.
Walk the journey,
Traverse the landscape,
Feel the sensations of emotions.
Be present.
Grief is a vital ingredient.
Embrace it with both hands, and
A warm heart.
It’s time for winter to thaw, and
Spring to have its way.
Feel the joy of new life,
Harness its power;
Acceptance is a force to be reckoned with.

My Night With Paul Simon
(Posted originally on June 5, 2013)

On the night train, the red eye plane,
Flying home to NYCeeeeeeeeeeeee,
From the city of Los Angeleeeeeeez

Feeling flush, dropped some cash,
Got me a seat in extra large first class

Seat 2C, plenty of room for my toes,
To wiggle  to dance, lay down some poetry tracks,
pretending I'm a **** jive,
bad *** from the
make-believe west coast

A short guy, with fedora down low,
An older man,
looking about nine years older
than somebody I might know,
hiding his eyes @ 9pm
neath some excellent Raybans,
slip slides into 2D,
gives me a smile,
And says Hi, I'm Paul

I look once at his face and say,
Listen Rhymin' Simon,
I'd know you any place,
No worries, your secret,
with me is safe,
Cause dudes in row 2,
gottta stick together, be cool,
We're riding first class,
over the land of the free

What ya do for a living he asks,
A little of this and a little of that,
All of which, ain't no **** good at!
So I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
Can't stop, cause it's my daddy's dying curse

He said that's cool,
I like to do that too.
Guitars on planes
drive passengers insane,
They take up too much
overhead compartment space,
I just scribble me some rhymes and
Let the music come
when I got two feet
on the ground in the city
we both come from.

Paul:  You got any stuff writ
on that yellow sheet,
or just pretty blue lines,
a big pad of nothing?

Dude: Man you may got diamonds
on the soles of your shoes,
But pay me some 'spect,  
you talking to the man who penned
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland
on Hello Poetry, gad ****!

Paul smiled and said
you can call me Al,
And if you feel like blowing some lines together,
We got five hours till we can see
the house that Ruth built.

Dude: Hit me with your best shot,
I'll show you what I got

Paul: And she said honey take me dancing
But they ended up by sleeping
In a doorway
By the bodegas and the lights on
Upper Broadway
Wearing diamonds on the soles of their shoes

Dude: Just cause the union of the  monkeys
in the Bronx Zoo done gone on strike,
Don't mean the lion ain't
still king of the hill
inside this New York city jail

Paul: And the sign said,
"The words of the prophets are written
on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered
in the sounds of silence

Dude: A home-grown poet.
I am
Soul enslaved to words.
The alphabet - My oxygen molecules,
I am both,
Addict and dealer
A ****** poet
******

Paul: You don't need to be coy, Roy
Just listen to me
Hop on the bus, Gus
You don't need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee
And get yourself free

Dude: Contact with the atmosphere
makes self pity die,
blue blood turn red,
the TNT tightness in my chest exploded
I got no place
to store these words,
the cops think I'm
some kind of
Terrorist

On and on thru the night,
Riffing, rapping, rambling, and spitting,
Ditties and darts, couplets and barbs,
Single words and elegies,
Free verse and a lot of fking curse words,
It was a moment, a time
that deserved
to be preserved,
and so this poem got writ

You may think this story apocryphal
Which is another way of saying untrue,
But I got his boarding pass and it is signed,
To this crazy poetry dude, long may you rasp,
And it is signed by Mr. P. Simon, a big fan,
And it has never since that day,
Left my grasp

the speedometer that measures the
acceleration and deceleration of
time in our lives journey is
remarkably similar to the one
we employ in our vehicles

intra moment we can move from
slowness to rapidity in minuscule
amounts of seconds, all the while,
those few bursts of being high, are
parcel of a longer cross country trip
that could be calculated in years,
decades, even life-spans

though we lack the visual imprimatur
upon our eyes of our exact speed most
times, we always have in our possess
a notional beginning and ending

we take a trip to grocery store, up/down
to NYC, fly to Paris just because, and return
home to bury and burn loved ones,
witnesses and fellow travelers to the
longer segments of our irregularly
configured continuum

here, you sigh, why, do you trouble us
with this obvious observation when
we have so much to do, so many roles
to don, and the kids need milk for cereal,
which is a thirty minute round trip that
should have not been necessary had
we “organized our moments of movement
far better organized!

perspicacity.

this word has been mindful for me for a
days, while bits and bobs, of a poem’s
composition blurted up and out, in  
some disarray, while the mind, tries
to collect them all, all for one, for
later collation and an unknown
destination

the wisdom to see down the road.
to plan accordingly, when we can oft
not* see around the next corner,
or even the next single steps we “plan”
to take, made without any thought
thereof

is there a poem in here, somewhere, Oh Sinner-man?
perhaps…or, just an indifferent end?