I want to write a song for this city
Sing it to my family, they’d understand why I left them
Sing it to the natives, and they’d roll their eyes
Sing it to the brownstones, and they’d echo heavy replies
Sing it to the innovators, and they’d see the cloth they hem
Sing it to myself, and I’d realize I live the life I dreamt

I want to write a song for this city
As many have before
Because I walk the same cobbled streets
As mythic tales of yore

The lights of the city sparkle from outside my window.
They, this view, will always remind me of you.

Water splashes down at my face and up at my boots as I walk these cobbled streets
- the same ones we used to stroll
hand in hand
white dog in tow
glancing up at the brownstones we passed
and joking how we'd live there one day.
Only I wasn't joking..

Remember when you kissed my face
and wrapped the strength of your arm around my shoulder like I was yours,
the only one?
I do...

Because the thing is I'm going to miss you.
I'm going to ache for you
and maybe cry myself to sleep a time or two.
I wonder if it will ever be easy to let you go
the way it was for you.

I'm not sorry I have to go;
I shouldn't have to convince you to love me.
But I wonder if you will remember me
and each night we spent wrapped in each other's arms
watching movies and knocking my laptop to the floor
because we were so eager to touch.

These are the things I need to know.
Because as I stand near this window
and watch the lights flicker on with twilight
I remember you waiting there,
watching you throw your bag over your shoulder.
I remember waiting for the smile and wave that never came
and the call that never rang..

and still
it was the sweetest goodbye I've ever known.

Gun metal and asbestos
The tundra of your father’s eyes
His heart left in London after the war
Stubborn, your mother clung to the lie
Hide the shameful sight
Your hands left over right
Roll a crochet ****** under your blanket
Picture perfect mask the missing
Digits and appendages
“That child’s not mine…Ma”
Shoulda put ya in a home

Whispered sins and indiscretions
You slept with your sister in silent rooms
Peed in a porcelain ***
Defiant, Old Nellie in her witch gray wool
She won’t latch the outhouse again
Keep that abomination strapped to your thigh
Crossed and awake at night
You came out swinging when he touched you
"Shoulda put ya in a home…."

Pick the rock salt from your hide
And never cry
Secrets sting more than saline bullets
You bared those knees in a hand made dress
And fled…newly wed
Birthed that ten toed baby girl
Relegated yourself to the drain of domesticity
Brownstones and picket fences
When did you cast the first thread
Spiderwebs and pyrite
Whispered sins and indiscretions
Broken dishes…
Broken bones…
Broken vows…
You lied so much better than you lived

That crave for validation in your fathers’ eyes
Drift away over his open grave
You played Taps in the shadows
One last time
I was an open wound in a house of pain
You couldn’t love your child
And swallow the shame
That little redhead down the street
Baby boy you couldn’t give
Fed your shattered ego with fear
In my eyes
Notch your bedpost with ticks for lovers and fools
Man eater never sated
**** point met….She’s not your daughter
You left him in an empty room
Payback is a jade eyed snake coiled up in your marriage bed

That High school Knight
Greasy hands and milk toast breath
You fled again
Tell me you’re happy
When he’s gone from dawn to dusk
Catching crappies* and suckin Pabst in a can
While you pickle yourself with cheap *****
And soap operas
Buried your crazy mother, your Witch of a sister
And the **** you married first….
No ripples of remorse
In the cement of your soul

We only speak across miles
Unreconciled
You will never apologize
Little dreams strangled
Wet ******* around my neck
Soap in my mouth
Welts and belts,
Wire brushes and hangers
Fitting discipline
Can’t leave my own alone with you
Drown your grandchild in the toilet bowl
Rather than ask for the truth
From a terrified child
Who had only begun to adore you
Now I can’t love his scars away
The truth is bitter, cold and lonely
Love cannot grow in a heart of stone
Chiseled bitter by the sins of a mother
A father and another
You never had a chance to be
Complete….
02/24/10
For Barbara....
*crappies are a pan fish.

Ice cakes stick like
Bricks on Brownstones
And Brooklyn sidewalks,
Strangling Michellins
And mice in polar death grips;
Suspending alternate  parking
Indefinitely...

Street sweepers sleep by the Bay
Dreaming of spring
And summer's stifling heat;

Garbage piles rise to the sky
From graves of snow

A stray cat named Rufus
wrapped in extra layers
Of fat
And black fur,
Streaks into the night,
Looking for love
And mice...

Two hookers in heels
Case the block
Flashing random Johns
And Jills
For 10-dollar thrills

Salt, shovels and greased elbows
Battle ice and snow
And frozen mountains grow
In the aftermath,
Strangling Michellins
And mice in polar death grips...

For Rufus...

~ Pablo (#ASCNR)
2/19/2014

Falling pink petals
Plinking my head
A saxophone serenade

Kind of kind of blue
A solitary birch among many hundreds
Of deciduous trees, its paper

Bark scored with age
White among shadows
And the endless breeze takes me up

Into Tiffany-blue sky
Pollen clumps litter the edges of lawn
Calliope streaming from a mared and seahorsed

Carousel dances in my head
Disobedient canine in exodus
Defiant against the silhouette

Of a circled dog
Line diagonally cutting across
Wah wah wah as the ducks in the pond

Are chased away.
Endless verdant day criss-crossed with
Walking paths and robin’s-egg sky punctuated

With drifting cotton shapes.
Brazen squirrels accustomed to the pleasant
Bustle and hustle

Bat City, unopened, in my lap
Mothers feeding children
Hungry mouths to breast.

Seeking out a lemonade stand
Near Winter Street in spring
A yellow burst of sour notes sing

On my palate
A bargain at a fiver on a day as this
Soundtrack peppered by buskers and

An ***** grinder turning the crank on his street ***** and
Birds and
The woo of occasional sirens.

A mother wheeling her child along
In a stroller
Mohawked, tattooed, pierced lip and

She smiles on by.
Ivied brownstones and balconies railed
With wrought iron

End our stay
On this idyllic day
In month of May.

Sadness is blowing all across the sidewalks here. This town is an old scar, worn on the arms of too-tough teenage skinheads. I don’t belong here anymore.
I tried to become someone who fades into the background here, just another curly head in a sea of Texas hair, but I’m too different to be the same. I come from water, brownstones, and seasalt air. I don’t belong here anymore.
And so I write letters back to Boston and empty homesickness into little paper cups, saving it for later. I can be alright here, growing up and meeting people I could’ve never imagined, if I want it. The question is, do I? I feel like I don’t belong here anymore.

Did I ever?

We are the coffee stains on waiting tables
That lie unattended in cafes
Of our own making
We are the imprints
Of a life lived haphazardly
Without any patterns to follow
We are…and are nothing more

Each day I immerse myself
In the torrent of a New York Sidewalk
Knowing that  Life and death
Have never been closer
Than at this very moment
Each day I see people
Living lives of quiet desperation
Caged in suits of blue and black
Bought for 250 dollars
At  Saks fifth avenue
Without looking at price tags
Because who argues
About the price of a straitjacket

I leave the crowds and walk down further
On a street that seems empty and yet full
There is a tree standing at the corner
Of two numbered avenues that
Are different ,yet the same
In the nightmarish way
That only cities can hope to achieve
It looks anaemic and withdrawn
Gnarled beyond recognition
Unnoticed , except by dogs
And posters for lost dogs
That offer paper rewards
For a live beating heart
It seems to cry, tearlessly
Soundlessly
At each nail that tears through its skin
Trying to find its pulse point
And silence it for good

There are brownstones lining
The street that I turn into
Brick mansions that should
In their ridges hold
Stories of wealth and  joy
That surely follow
All green paper trails
But instead, house
(Like exotic museum specimens )
Cheating fathers and acrimonious mothers
Drugged out sons and prostitutional daughters
All by products of a generation that measures
***** into its morning cornflakes
And keeps itself alive
On a steady diet of Adderall


I come to the end of the street
And watch as the sun sinks down
Over a dead end world
Wondering if the night will hide
Or reveal all that lies hidden
Wondering if remembering
Buries or resurrects …
Or whether we are all graves
Postmarked optimistically “To Heaven “

the heavens looking down see
black ominous umbrellas
scurrying about- the animals we are
seeking refuge beneath bodega quality umbrellas
flimsy like the faith i had in you
but may you prove me wrong, loved one
in this cluttered concrete jungle

familiarity
conformity
unoriginal-ality but in reality we
all have places to be and why stand out in the rain?

uninvited water droplets from sky
penetrate pantyhose and
the window plants of overpriced brownstones
the allure of rain by all natural individuals
see nourishment soon to unfold
beauty in baby’s toes stomping in mud
fishing for worms that wriggle with discomfort
gardener of words
rain or shine
she knew how to put a feeling into
gentle yet tasteful prose.

“Meet Me”

Meet me at the holligram
back to where time stood still
We'll buy new dreams at the old dream stand
them set them free to square the bill

Meet me where the church once stood
on the dirt road past the open sky
we'll lay down in the poppy fields
and hold hands once more, you and I

Meet me where the spirits dance
the crescent moon will lead the way
stone markers in the darkened woods
Softly, we will hear them say
Hallowed be
Hallowed be
Hallowed be

Meet me in the old north woods
where colored leaves drift to the ground
the whistling wind will sing the song
with silence as the constant sound

Meet me where the night dogs howl
sad and lonely in the dark
singing for a lover lost
calling to the crystal stars
Hallowed be
Hallowed be
Hallowed be

Meet me where the rolling waves
kiss the earth of sand and shore
to tell the tale of men in ships
lost and gone forever more

Meet me in the city streets
Brownstones that were once called home
We'll draw a map of life and times
of past, present and still to come

Meet me where the birds of time
spread their wings to sail the sky
to show us signs of freedom's flight
to mark this place we live and die
Hallowed be
Hallowed be
Hallowed be

Yes, meet me at the holligram
near the corner of 12th and time
We'll sell our dreams to the gypsy girl
Then square our bill yet one more time

‘Do you listen to music when you write?’

Duke Ellington ‘In a Sentimental Mood’ is a fave. Sets tone. Brings mood. Love some John Coltrane intermittent weaving throughout. That sax is like rain on Mars.

Miles Davis ‘Flamenco Sketches’
But what about Blue in Green? I like it but Flamenco sets the table. Give me Cafe Bustelo, French Vanilla, and this one and I’ll write your will out for you where everyone cries...

Moby ‘God Moving Over the Face of Water’ Deep, penetrative thoughts conquer over this. The piano makes me fly, brings me back down and sets me like a feather.

My Morning Jacket ‘Only Memories Remain’ Wrote a whole book to this. The Wurlitzer and then the guitar solo at the end is stupefying to me.
And how do I feel when I listen to these pieces?
What I see is what I write down:
My Father’s Hands
My Mother’s *******
Footprints in the snow
Bruises upon my soul
Forests on fire
Sunsets on Mars
Her naked woman curves
Highways into the night
Lava flows
***** feet
My daughter being born
Sunrise coming up from an ocean
Moss growing over everything
Brownstones in Greenwich Village
Empty wine bottles

The music helps
Amplifies
Energizes

What music do you listen to when you write?

The morning sunlight
on our face, our house
of brownstones, the promise
of the future that we chose

It is really starting now, we will
walk along the channeled stream
and the children will play
under the pines on the hill

Here we want to root
broadly and deeply
until the sun sets

We have unpacked our stuff
the cards with congratulations
next to the vase with tulips

the bed open
the house inaugurated

Cabin libraries always look warm
and deliberate for something so unplanned.
Take one. Leave one.
A borrowed book belongs anywhere.

//

The stacks in Ashley’s apartment come off more Doric than inviting.
A row in the windowsill fits snug like vacant brownstones.
Even if there was space for one more,
it would look odd
among the tall, straight spines and faded covers
blistered by seasons.
I lend her Consider the Fork because it’s all about giving.
She stays in her room when I’m home,
shut behind the white french doors.

//

A copy of The Big Sea sits on my nightstand.
It props up a lamp I should have anchored to the wall.
I haven’t opened it since college except to find a quote I’d misremembered
about ghosts and keys and ships.
We’ve only got four months left in this house anyway.

She would never dream of arriving at a session
Looking like a first take--not like the bass player
With his shirt collar rising and rolling
Like some unplanted meadow on an Upstate hillside,
Or the trumpeter whose ancient corduroys
Have not seen a pressing in months if ever,
Or the sad young man at the mixing board
With the hair sticking out like wire brushes
Splayed for the softest swish possible.
She would never dream of appearing in any manner
Not fully together, the muted gold blouses
(Accentuated with a bright red scarf)
The tailored skirts of crimson or brown,
Hair freshly salon-coiffed, lipstick and makeup just so.
As she is not a performer as much as the stuff of legend,
And those hunched over traps and cymbals
Or bunched cheek-to-jowl with the acoustic tile
Are utterly bewitched by the sounds,
So familiar yet with all the life of twenty years earlier,
Yet the tape playback seems to file a dissenting opinion:
There is a certain frailty to the timbre,
The odd hitch and hesitation in the phrasing
(She does not betray much while listening,
One headphone pressed to a single ear,
Save for the odd fleeting furrow to the forehead)
But it is something that is paid little mind,
The quartet and singer plowing ahead
Until such time she gathers coat and purse
In a gesture which clearly states That is all for today
And she leaves the studio to walk the few blocks home,
Passing by some down-on-their-luck brownstones,
Their facades recently whitewashed in the vain hope
Of masking the irrevocable cracking in the walls,
The buckling of the edifice's foundation

After forty years the brownstones
still seemed the same except
for the newer cars and the people
in fashionable clothes walking
golden dogs in chic comfort vests,
all living in houses he couldn’t afford.

He couldn’t believe he grew up here
when the streets were lively
with black live matter
and Gerald every summer
out there  with his roller
painting fatsfix’s store front red.

Now there sits Wray’s fancy drink café,
his name in a stylish white font
outcropping from a charcoal awning,
a cocktail glass replacing the Y, a large
BLACKLIVESMATTER banner out front,
proudly put there by its white owner.

The old El Diamantet is now
Castro’s Authentic Mexican Cuisine  
sharing space with a Dunkin’ Donuts
with expensive bicycles racked
to the declining handicap ramp.
The Mobil on Fuller- a Citgo Market.

The Meats and Greens turned Bamboo’s
and the farmacia now just  a pharmacy,
and the biggest insult of them all,
New Murken’s Restaurant which
served the best corn-beef sandwhiches
is an “eat big, leave happy” Mega  Bites.

The homebuds  had split, vanished
to memories of stinging high fives,
basketball jams and feeling up
Zoe on a fine Friday night,  the smell
of her  lingering in forty years  of regret.
There’ll be no bros coming from  these doors.

His heart  felt the sting of going home to a home
that was no longer his and no longer wanted him.
That past was a meat offering to this new block-
as if his blood and flesh had been scrubbed away
in the white wash of neatly trimmed roses behind
spiked  fences-  as if that there of his never happened.

“What was here before we came?” he imagined
the children asking the parents behind the doors.
“Nothing of note,” they would reply using the
same line the real estate agent routinely recited
to anyone who inquired about what existed
before the abattoir came and moved  on.

There is this thing inside of me

Inside and I burn it all night

Bearing fruit is this ugly little seed inside of me

I slept outside, in hot pine tar to keep myself stuck on earth.


Flying into a lunar corona was a burnt little seed that cracked

first thing in the morning

after all the worms suffocated on my mud hill

and after all of the soot the storm deposits

in soft sod underbelly brownstones


Sintered bits of shredded mail make my eyes light on fire
whenever her hair flipped and smelled light rainlight after we stayed up all night fighting and *******.

Stillness made the water on my head cool and soft

Softness held my hard heart aloft in a little parchment paper so I can save it for later.