For Al, who left us, Nov. 22, 2014

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, 
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
__________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)


__________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

i am not a curated list of
the top songs,
the best songs,
critically-acclaimed songs,
picked with so much care
too much care
the others cease to matter
i am the songs
known and niched
borne out of an artist's dream
i exist so they could dance
in the kitchen at 3 am
i might not expand the world
in which i live
but i will persist
in careless dancers
dancers like me
the dancers after us

The Holy Family?
In a box
with the angels upstairs

Shepherds?
In search of their sheep
lost in newspaper

Somehow I sit on a bag...
     of glass Christmas *****
“Must get my vacuum!”
That dead animal, coated by dust
and buried in laundry--
has tangled itself in its own cord
and tumbled headlong to the basement

Crooked photos of daughters
watch me...
smiling (Can it be?)
from a hundred miles and years away?
Waiting for me to make
that miracle again--
What moms do at Christmas

Phone rings
    “Jing-a-ling, are ya listening?”
     It's the bill collector's recorded
     “This is inexcusable!” message
      Charities are legion
      I say, “There is a line”

Later--
seen only by the peaceful stars...
the donkey of Bethlehem
stumbles in-- laden with groceries
dumping them on the bed/couch
...and back outside for the next load
...and back to the bed again
Why bother making it?
Not as if the cat cares
He likes his blankets niched and lumpy
Not as if some modern home magazine's
planning a photo-shoot!

The mailbox, meanwhile
is preggers  with glossy catalogues
...and bills...and
“Wouldn't your whole family enjoy a sunroom?”

Dropping the bags
searching for a light
turning up the heat--
     gas bill
     sewer bill
     “Tis the season for a new Toyota!”
I try to understand the point
of a Christmas card with printed signature
Can I stuff myself in with the recycling?

Then, back outside for the single-woman drama
     “Hauling in the Tree”
Storm door catches the hem of my coat
Pine needles, leaves, snow and mud
mark the end of the trail

On my belly twisting screws
       “Son-of-a-******* tree stand!”
Knocking my daughter's picture off the wall
       “Serves 'er right fer laughin!”
**** thing's crooked and dripping
with melted snow

It's 8:30 PM

The cat is hungry and crying
I hit the bottom-- and the button
for the background of a human voice
Three naked chickens are waiting on the counter

At some point, I will take off my coat...

Right now--
I drink a beer while standing

To get a better view....

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,  poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
___

4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

The Holy Family?
In a box
with the angels upstairs

Shepherds?
In search of their sheep
lost in newspaper

Somehow I sit on a bag...
     of glass Christmas *****
“Must get my vacuum!”
That dead animal, coated by dust
and buried in laundry--
has tangled itself in its own cord
and tumbled headlong to the basement

Crooked photos of daughters
watch me...
smiling (Can it be?)
from a hundred miles and years away?
Waiting for me to make
that miracle again--
What moms do at Christmas

Phone rings
    “Jing-a-ling, are ya listening?”
     It's the bill collector's recorded
     “This is inexcusable!” message
      Charities are legion
      I say, “There is a line”

Later--
seen only by the peaceful stars...
the donkey of Bethlehem
stumbles in-- laden with groceries
dumping them on the bed/couch
...and back outside for the next load
...and back to the bed again
Why bother making it?
Not as if the cat cares
He likes his blankets niched and lumpy
Not as if some modern home magazine's
planning a photo-shoot!

The mailbox, meanwhile
is preggers  with glossy catalogues
...and bills...and
“Wouldn't your whole family enjoy a sunroom?”

Dropping the bags
searching for a light
turning up the heat--
     gas bill
     sewer bill
     “Tis the season for a new Toyota!”
I try to understand the point
of a Christmas card with printed signature
Can I stuff myself in with the recycling?

Then, back outside for the single-woman drama
     “Hauling in the Tree”
Storm door catches the hem of my coat
Pine needles, leaves, snow and mud
mark the end of the trail

On my belly twisting screws
       “Son-of-a-******* tree stand!”
Knocking my daughter's picture off the wall
       “Serves 'er right fer laughin!”
**** thing's crooked and dripping
with melted snow

It's 8:30 PM

The cat is hungry and crying
I hit the bottom-- and the button
for the background of a human voice
Three naked chickens are waiting on the counter

At some point, I will take off my coat...
Right now--
I drink a beer while standing

To get a better view....

Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!

No big deal, your name, your email, bought n' sold daily,
Like a baseball card, your picture and vital stats are on the internet,
Your credit card in the fine print tells you they love you much,
But the data they collect, might get credited to such and such.

You're fair game if your sign up for anything.

Now I know I am getting on in years,
Tho spry rhymes with die, I flatly deny
Any notion that
My great beyond is just around the corner!

But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!

Got a color brochure
Suggesting that when my travels are over,
A nice place to rest my head might be
St. Michael's Cemetery.

St. Michael's Cemetery
7202 Astoria Blvd, East Elmhurst
(718) 278-3240
Friday hours 7:00 am–5:00 pm

In case you want to check it out too...

Tho I live not in the Borough of Queens County,
My zip code but a hop, skip and jump away,
The cemetery adjacent to the Grand Central Parkway
Which is actually quite thoughtful of
The mass marketer who dreamed up this scheme
(And got paid a plentiful amount of bounty).
My kids could wave as they drive by,
On the way to LaGuardia or JFK, (airports)
And say, guilt free, they visit me regularly!

Sadly, their plot foiled,
I will be buried in
New Jersey soil,
Near to my pop, who liked the
Wide open spaces of suburbia
And shopping on Route 4,
Where the selection is great
And there is no sales tax.

But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name,
And I am now target marketed,
Niched, pretty soon the boys from AARP
Will come calling, reminding me of the gap
Tween Medicare and the poor house!

Ok ok,  grow up you say, tho your hair is full,
And not even a hint of baldness shines forth,
Nonetheless, its color is zebra striped gray,
And when someone says they got my back,
I think, please, please take it and keep it....

Oh yeah,
Dear St. Mikes
You might ask for some of your money back,
Cause this sily scribe is a member of the tribe,
Some call "those ***** (hint: it rhymes with Mikes),"
It starts with K and ends in yikes!

But thanks for thinking of me anyway.

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,  poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
___________

4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

The Anorak diviners see
their market jolted, killed off  
Already Magic numbers's 64 and 200
are side-lined and downed,
all they have are memento boxes of
once household brands ,
liquidation like implosion sees,
ISO granularity choice further compressed,
those remaining niched as Professional film
to milk the last remnant of expediency,
in the midst of adversity
they should pledge their mounts
as a salvo to tomorrow.
Earmark them, gifted for
Local History Musems
pristine images from yesteryear.

Mary**
 
It was her sandelled foot
and bared calf I noticed.
She was kneeling.
 
A strong young woman
convinced in truth,
a plain flawless face
hair spilling out
under the required scarf.
In stone.
Larger than life-size.
Niched in the Chapter House.
 
Now I know her touch,
her attentive gaze,
her restless mind.

Stargazing.
The study of bright lights niched across dim sky with fascination.
Bright lights called stars mark the canvas with the points for constellations.
Painting the stories of great triumphs or dark tales of tribulations.
Like the scars along our skin that tell of our actions, and their culminations.

You see, my sister has a white mark on her forehead from us playing at four years old.
We were running around our house until she smacked her head on the corner wall.
And back then I was crying and wailing ****** ****** at the age of four years old.
Now, I jokingly smile at the scar, like a reminder to me to not run in the halls.
But not every reminder is careless and cute like the one my sister holds.

Like the one down my left leg telling of the time I failed a box jump back in eighth grade.
It isn’t obvious, but I could point to it because I remember when I used to analyze it everyday.
And I analyzed it until the cut on my skin left a constellation of fear in my mind that would weigh me down.
Until a year later, when my friend made me realize that I didn’t have a reason to be afraid, because box jumps honestly weren’t that hard.

Though I realize not everyone has a friend like mine.
So I should’ve known to help others who needed help solving the constellations in their minds.
But I didn’t, because I’m a stargazer, who studies the stars, keeping his thoughts in his mind.
So these past months I’ve seen pictures painted of the most tragic star in my life.

In June of 2018 there would be the combustion of a supernova that would shake the entire universe so violently you’d swear you could feel it coming half a year in advance.
And that’s because you could feel it, like the first snowflake of a snowstorm my friend would post thoughts online in hope someone would warm him in the winter cold.
But the people were silent, ignorance gave them warmth in the form of winter hats and winter coats, they weren’t bothered by the cold, they let the upcoming events unfold.
So when my friend realized that he was alone in the storm, he held onto his dreams, but one can only hold on for so long until the longing to make a necklace of constellations like that of gold grows too strong.
And so the supernova exploded, the constellations were molded.
The people screamed as if they could just finally see it, as if there had been a 6 month eclipse blinding their eyes with ignorance as his life folded.
But nothing could be done, no amount of apologies or sorrow could turn back time now.
So the people did what the could by bandaging their own traumatized eyes.

But first, there was the pain.
Not the pain you see every other day but the kind that makes a whole people weep on their knees.
The kind of pain you feel when there is nothing left for you in life and your countless hopeless dreams are now forever accounted as that, for it’s all they will ever be.
But how much pain could there really be, For the person who held the most pain of them all was already set free?

Then came the cavalry.
Men marching on their horses, filling the village with empathy and sympathy, mending the cracked minds, shattered lives, and ruined dreams.
They went door to door and while not all accepted their charities they indiscriminately gave it up like candy to goblins on Halloween.
But how could they not see, the one life they had been sent to save had long ago been set free?

And so I cry.
An undeserving goblin with a telescope used to examine the explosion from a safe distance like the good stargazer I was.
It wasn’t until afterwards that I realized I could’ve stopped the comet that cut the star’s life short, leaving me with haunting memories of him telling me “I’m fine.”
Now able to read the language of the stars I realize, his eyes were filled with constellations screaming, “I feel like I want to die.”

As origin of **** Sapien species surged ahead,
harboring nascent predominance
asper said primate reproductively bred,
(albeit via incremental fits and starts)
evolutionary forebears didst dread
Tom Tom Club former members
an American new wave band founded in 1981
by husband-and-wife team Chris Frantz
and Tina Weymouth
as a side project from Talking Heads,
rocketing them to super stardom
similar to heights of fame and fortune,
where band zeppelin led
exemplifying, fortifying, and glorifying QED
quod erat demonstrandum
meaning "that which was to be demonstrated,"

whence, (since time immemorial) nasty, short
brutish, loutish, and vampish anthropological,
genealogical, and millennial
report card found forebears
precariously perched, pitched, and positioned quart
toured pièce de résistance  purport
head supremacy devastatingly,
heavily, and literally bruited nearly did abort

tentative tenacious status
being supreme species oft times
challenged minuscule leading edge
proto humans rendered
stronghold atop ACME perch
(on evolutionary leading cusp) fund hedge
ching hypothetical bets said simians
nearly toppled off figurative ledge
against being easily uprooted
akin to one weeding out unwanted sedge
imposing fledgling breakfast of champions
clinging to niched wedge

while serial incessant challenges nearly wrote
snuffed out clinched placed viz *** him tote
often at fateful loggerheads,
where survival of the fittest smote
cream of the crop sacrificed for Ares
poised to strike dawn of dusky mankind
viz apish creatures almost got rote
off while chance dominance, eminence grise
pitted, spitted, and got vetted sans un quote
able primal screaming expletives
pitted Neanderthal progenitors note
worthy kickstarter scrum held dim promise,
whether weathered brood
which smattering population comprised
a scattered handful of rudimentary
destined to become a GOAT

contemporary competitive lass or dude,
whence latent talent to net fame and fortune
voluntarily sharing wealth as altruistic,
deterministic, humanistic, and idealistic
amidst looming global warming
legacy of industrial revolutions,
which pointedly wreaked havoc
radioactive Superfund sites still exude
toxins, where dangerous fallout glommed,

rained, and frankly zapped the tocsin
muted, muffled, muddied waters
where pollution never
confronted Wilma or Fred Flintstone
generic Geico caveman/woman respectively,
and aside from external
threatening ecological depredations
violent crime comprises tribal (family) feud
where might versus right,

the deterministic factor aye include
at undoubtedly animalistic behavior
defied being categorized as lewd
since each monkey's uncle
similarly frolicked, gallivanted, and hocked
like a CRO-MAGNON
European early modern humans,
when he flirted in done ****
videre licet dangling modifier
attested courtesy punctuated equilibrium

(the hypothesis evolutionary development
marked by isolated episodes
of rapid speciation
between long periods
of little or no change)
courtesy Stephen Jay Gould
fate didst not occlude
also absence of consciousness rued

until...fast forward to the present day,
when carnal, feral,
and integral leanings attempted
to rope hormonal, gonadal,
and banal found
more recent ancestors (discovered
visa vis like Ancestry.com and/or 23andme)
rolled in the hay
under the natural predilection to lay naked,
especially frisky comb early
May procreative force
engendered the writer of this poem,
when his parents coaxed foreplay
unbeknownst, that their singular heir,
would be afflicted with countless
obsessive compulsive mailer to slay
ritualistic controlling psychic threnody
dominated favored holistic paradigm oy vey
dystopia prevails every which way
Gaia will be declared winner yay!