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I left this town in 75
a dumb drunk ****

or as a friend once
poetically observed
"a beer quaffing linebacker"

but tonight I return
an enlightened poet
ready to recite
a stack of poems
eight years and two days
removed from my last drink

now relishing
the sweet intoxication
of drinking in
seas of words and letters,
brading a life's narrative with
solitary lifelines of truth

This town knew me

I know this town

The pomp and circumstance
of my high school commencement
occurred in this very place

I know the exact spot
near St. Mary
where Moose was killed
that awful
Good Friday evening.

After enjoying
the team revelry
at a Saturday Night
victory party;
I ran my hand across
the scarred Poplar
on West Passaic Avenue
that abruptly ended
Fic's life.

I slink past the house
filled with heinous memories
of my youth, cringing
through relived nightmares
of my father brutalizing
my naked mother in
an alcoholic rage;
and remain busy
trying to lick the still
raw sting of running wounds
inflicted by a mother
consumed with a
raging bitterness of
self righteous resentments.

Beer, *****,
Boone's Farm
and lotsa rolled bones
destroyed my family home,
murdered childhood
friends and greased
the wheels of
getaway cars in
fruitless attempts
to escape emotional

From where I stand
I can throw a stone
in any direction to mark
the scenes of
a hundred stories
that authored
the constitution
of me.

the street
I can see
the lights burning
in the apartment where
Weehawken Joe
once lived.

Take a look.

He was crazier than
Tony Montana and
like Scarface not a
single lie could
be found in him;
he also possessed
the gift of
the best jump-shot
the Bulldogs ever had.

Years after I left town
I burst into tears
when Buns Hines
broke the news that
Weehawken  Joe
died of throat cancer.

Mortality is a
bitter truth
to swallow.

All along
Park Avenue
old commercial haunts,
save Varrelmann's Bakery
long gone.

Further up the street
my pilgrimage ends at the
WCW homestead.

In the fading light
of a glorious
autumn afternoon
the house appears
rundown, empty,
mournfully shabby.

On an upper floor
a lace curtain gently
flits and darts out an
open window.

I ponder
the words
still dwelling in
the dark closets
haunting the rooms
of this distressed edifice.

I wonder
how they now

The faint noises
hidden in
dusty corners
moaning a
ghostly presence,
creeping the halls,
clattering about
the kitchen,
bounding through
the living room
in an old beat-up
Red Wheelbarrow;
rolling along
moving to manifest
faintly whispered echos
into fully formed phrases;
liberating expressive sentiments
of a very blue house...

Eight years, two days
removed from a drink,
I'm grasping for letters
fumbling for the words
listening for sounds
churning within me
seeking to release
the revelations
of my truth.

Crosby, Stills Nash & Young
On the Way Home

William Carlos Williams Center
Rutherford NJ
heikkitsh  Sep 2018
Today's WCW
heikkitsh Sep 2018
Today's WCW is an immaculate woman.
She's an epitome of beauty,
quintessentially feminine,
a paragon of perfection.
This is how I describe the woman I'm in love with at this very hour. She's the most beautiful woman I know. She's the one that sleeps on my mind, the one I crave every day. She's truly an epitome of beauty...
Lou Costello’s
bronze semblance
dipped and danced atop
his granite pedestal
spinning miasmatic tales
of enigmatic hope and
resplendent labor

“the sweet
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”

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

“growing up
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

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

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

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

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

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  

banality becomes
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

"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

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

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
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
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

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
metropolis and
Lou’s stand up

“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
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

“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

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

Part 5 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  Hope and Labor is the city motto of Paterson NJ, nick named The Silk City.
Damien Moody May 2015
The African American Blonde Bombshell on ya TV screen. It is I, ya younger victim of the bullying you caused me to suffer in our younger years together and now I am the #WCW on ya Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. She's bad huh. Too bad you lost ya chance with her and if only you knew her top secret. Maybe I should give u a chance to apologize and give me the love and respect you wouldn't give Adrian. Now that I am Alexis you want to cater to me and get my ******* down to my ankles. You want me to be ya main chick and you wanna put a ring on it. Well little do you know I am the Transgendered Barbie I always wanted to be. Oh now your surprised. Didn't know I was born a man.......or should I say your punching bag because you loved to use me to hide your real sexuality. Now the jokes on you.
Tia de Wolf Dec 2017
so much depends

a pair of green

glazed with wind

under the night
Fish The Pig  Jun 2015
a thing.
Fish The Pig Jun 2015
I didn't eat for three days
so I could be lovely
like Yolandi Visser who's above me
if I don't eat meat
will there be extra room on my seat?
for adventures- oh
I wanna live like louis
cause you're so aw
and I'm so ew
should be the other way around
but I'm bowin on the ground
you a she-ra
no ska
hip-hop double dutch
south paw
fighting like a gang from the hood
grew up on the rough streets
of GV
oh Jeez
so tough
smoke ****
post a pic of my blunt
love to hunt
'cause I'm so cool
be jealous of me
and my shirt that say skee
****** with the fuckbois
I think I need to grow up
messin with the sub
tellin my mom to shut up
I smell like shtub
I'm so oppressed right now
white privelage is hard
I'm a smart teen
as an ignorant delinquent
teeth clinquant-
I can be eloquent
but I'm treated like an infant
so frequent
I act like a miscreant
nobody seems to understand
I don't even think I do
get that lotion 'way from me
gotta get tanned-
dya see my abbs
dya see me ***
I'm a piece of meat
rare and raw
with seasoning
dress code
don't tell me otherwise
underneath american skies
it's all about your size
supersize the food
downsize your weight
keep it down
keep it low
till gravity
brings you crashing down
in a geneva gown
gap thighs
'cause it's
to when I did fbf
I don't even know how to spell it
what a ****
bathroom wall vandalism
"fat *****"
so gangsta
so tough
I have it so rough
middle class white kid
you've got to be kidding me
praise cthulu
giant squid.
A L Davies Oct 2011
writing a poem (on my iPod: feels like cheating)
while greyhounding back homeward---
(weekend red stripes in guelph & waterloo)
it hasn't much t'do with anything,
save perhaps this mournful banjo
in my ear and grey toronto
and the plateglass houses of the
great rich masses set back on
manicured hills. . .
                            . . . it is overcast again
---tho t'always is on busfilled
                     travel sundays---
when you've nothing else to do but
leave all the weekend's joy in the dusts.
preachers screamin' in fastidious belled churches
while my head splits (from th'very thought)

and O the women i leave behind!
the tight snaky barworn dresses,
smudges (lipsticks)
on ***** cranberries ...
                                          ah! (ah!)
all the numbers and names half-collected,
waiting for next trip down
---or maybe just black oblivion.

. . .
but enough of cloudy thoughts!
i have Spring and all (WCW)
waiting in the pack &

                                  ... poetry

is the only thing of any importance.
the gardens of bedroom bliss
the freckled map of womankind
the rippling cascade of golden hair
must wait...
free greyhound internet travel verses, brought to you by iPod Touch (R.I.P. Steve Jobs)
Stan Gichuki  Jun 2017
Stan Gichuki Jun 2017
Your MCM is only flirting with you because he's bored and his WCW isn't replying .Sorry
Stop Reaching For My Hand, Your Boyfriends is Getting Cold.
Mike Essig  Feb 2016
Gone Girl
Mike Essig Feb 2016
Divorce is the sign of knowledge is out times.* wcw

Empty chair. Sun frowning through blinds on lifeless rooms.
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
Singing now to only one. A history of the void. Hollow words.
Know the past. You were there. In everything done.
Boxed up kid's toys. Forgotten gifts. Solitary thoughts.
Echoes of children's voices. Fading to grown up.
No one knows what lurks down the road. Dead end.
Memories of the missing. One way conversations. Unsung songs.
Days without direction. Nights of nothing. Empty bed blues.
Ransacked nostalgia. Random recollections. Loneliness.
     You and I we're like water to the sea,
     What can one without the other be.

It's all about the filter
And not personality.
It's all about the cake make up ,
And not the true beauty.
It's all about the wcw
All about the body shape,
Promoting beauty
Looking like a product.
No longer human,
not advertising the mind.
Hair hair everywhere from
to Indian
Comparing who rocks it best.
Looking like mermaids with seaweed dye on it,
It's all about a cool dance , dumb lyrics and a hot beat ,
Not real music about life
Just a free promotion of ****, money and *******.
Making the world go crazy.
Believing this is the way life is,
Get high or die.
It's all about social media and not putting the phone down to enjoy nature.
The outside , has now become the phone.
All about linking up but not wanting a relationship
Just a friend with benefits.
Hiding our heart in our sleeves.
Not expressing our feelings .
We are trying to impress the world
When truly a bit of us dies every minute.
We are being judged by the social media
Doing the fire challenge.
And tryna beat everyone in the dumbest challenge,  just so we can get new followers , retweets and praises.
Instead of reading a book and learning something new.
Or trying to achieve our dreams.
We're not even working hard no more.
We are becoming slaves to the media.
That we don't seem to realise , that we lost our identity.
We were made original but most of us are dying as a copy of another. We no longer have our unique colour.
We are all blending in.
Smoking marijuana because it's cool and you will be accepted by the society.
But what happened to being ourselves?
Being loud
Being funny
Being caring
Or taking our time to show affection to one another.
We are no longer happy with the reflection we see in the mirror.
We are losing ourselves,  
We've become so lazy.
We're not inspired no more.
Or respected
We are so focused on living the now ,
with no idea how that will affect us tomorrow.
But at the end of the day, we must remember that most of the people we try and please . Will not be there , in your times of need and pain. Or bury you . Why??because we have become the lost generation. 2014.  It's time to wake up!
Be inspired

— The End —