this trip
homeward bound,
riding the Q (subway) train
from the messy grime of a
never fully repossessed
cesspool misnamed as
Times Square,

to our apartment
near but yet far,
a poem short & sweet was
born complete, on an 8 minute
fast track victory lap to periodic
successful urban planning,

that even and
even though
with and/of
which
no speedy highly
disrespectful witch
on a broomstick,
nor a midnight traffickless
auto trip,
could ever hope
to compete
<>
roses red, violets blue,
all the passengers, revelry tired,
both becostumed & be plained,
Hallowed eve festivities
again, lesser than expected,
life be, eager awaited
legal moment of crazy-
-inness-inward-permissed,
never quiet or as good
as hoped,

we tired riders
all look worn from the
aggregated
infidelities of a
a hoped-for
missing-out happier life

nearing midnight,
the new immigrants,
in subway platform
patrolling,
offer us candy for sale,
their toddler children,
beside them
at this midnight hour,
to drive home
the desperate willingness to

survive in a city oft hostile

no longer eager to be
beacon beckoning
to the world, we rethink
to our minded selves,
our Statue of Liberty
engraved invite:

"Give me your tired, your poor, / Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, / The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. / Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, / I lift my lamp beside the golden door”
<>
we exit the underground rout(e)
and the walk from subway to front door
is another 8 minute travelogue segment,
we cover the quarter mile on foot,
covering a skimp of distance that
our urban transport  
of many mileage covered
in the same units of minutes
in flyer miles

<>
late at night,
we walk fast, with eyes wide,
our lives to hide,
from the risks of the
unpredictable
when the street parade
of stragglers
gives not the comfort of a
rowdy crowdy,
and the existence of crime
is not
entirely fabricated

<Did>
I offer short and sweet,

Oh well I only misled,
the trip 16 minutes
and the poem
in my head,
complete emerged
with minutiae attending
et. al.,
in far far less mini~minutes,
for it was
a product of
silent back labor,
from first staggering
screaming pain
to
successful unexpected birth
that can take maybe
minutes five,
to mentally survive
plus,
physically complete the birth,
introduce this poem to life.
when the photos of my mined mind
make images from negatives
into words,:

collect, sort and report the
output picturesque
now in colors black & white,
of a trip from a Broadway theater
through to a high rise building
astride the river
which gives me
a theoretical cleaner space to breathe
<>
rather than short and sweet?
I really reseed,
redeed it as/is:
not too long and a tad
bittersweet

a night in the life of
the mixture of successes and
failures of our troubled world
in
living technicolor,
a few seconds of film
of which one could fairly,
and in fairness
bless/write/curse/
each sight
twice,
uttering:

”mine eyes have seen the glories,
as all come to look for America”

“But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I'm gettin' older, too”
lyric from “Landslide” by Stevie Nicks

<>
climbing stairs, balancing two breakfasts,
two fill-to-brim-rims warning sloshing,
earbuds in place, always,
lest the news
interrupts and plunges me first thing into
moody murderous disheartened failure,
and Miz Minx Nicks lays me low

this lyric knocks me to rock,
there and then,
consequences be ******, the unstoppable
lyric rocks grinding me to an
immovable halt,
all spills,
don’t care, for the need to scream-
bleed-finally
write to understand why these
a l w a y s words arrest my soul

children
the most costly thing anyone can
create,
the lost, the found
the ones in the grave way too early,
and the ones who were born
knowing better,

children
whose inviolable sense of
totally righteousness
makes forgiveness
disabled, disallowed
for the poor clueless fools
them who naively know~nothings
who chose to raise them

here I am not getting,
no, unsteadily unreadily
too late
am older,
up-to the shaking-head age
so unexpected,
almost ridiculous
untimely unthinkable
‘cept for:

it’s an impossiblity ~
and just
don’t understand this injustice
perpetrated upon this
unsuspecting and in denial,
sorrowful old man

so I weep
on the steps so steep,
Woman comes to see if I'm
fallen,
my wailing at the realization of
my losses all
totally tallied
is heavy much more than
my now empty hands,
but busy them,
attempting to staunch the
flowing
overwhelming regrets that
gush from every pore,
and that no one can
ever be cleansed,
and the permance of
stains

for I am only
getting older too
killing me
way too slowly

Comedy and tragedy never seem to be distributed evenly
Not sure destiny would even recognize me
Nor I it honestly
But could it, would it, should it be able too avoid me deliberately?
Surely if I coulda, I woulda and probably shoulda taken it more seriously
I know this is my millionth apology,
That's not lost on me
I'm so sorry that I happen to be so sorry
If you could find it in your heart too forgive me
It'd be
Just another thing that I envy
Endlessly
For all of eternity

©2024