conversations and conundrums
songs you hum at night
voids we might fill with the words you dangle from your ballpoint pen
imagined, enamored, unreal

Perilous voyages of small watercraft at sea , amphibious landings on well defended beachheads , Clipper ships whaling on distant oceans , military vessels in armed conflict , night of relentless cannon fire , explosive reflections across shark infested waters , treasure maps and chest laden with gold , rubies and pieces of eight , the cry of Viking warriors on the rugged coast of Newfoundland .. Pirates just off the shores of the Carolinas ..  Forts Pulaski , Sumter and Jefferson on the Dry Tortugas ..
Oil platforms racked by ferocious winds on the Gulf of Mexico ..
Union and Confederate battles on Mobile Bay , Riverboats traversing the Mississippi ..Tending barges along the Ohio ..On high alert through Georgia's intracoastal waterways ....

5th Ave. was shoulder to shoulder with
hungry lunch-seeking business men
and women. Ricardo unpacked
his horn nervously and a foot cymbal.
Spring, early street season, too cold
for most musicians but he needed money.
His lips kissed the cold metal mouthpiece.

Carrying the saw and the pulaski.
Cutting brush for a fire line high up,
where raptors and ravens fly. No sound
but wind if you could subtract the crew
working and *****, joking during lunch.
A good year it had been sitting in the soil
feeling Ricardo's body on the mountainside.
Mountains moving as good a feeling.

Alone in his town, most neighbors at work,
housecleaning done, Ricardo settled down
with pen to write and ate lunch.
People = chickadees.
Clutch size, substrate, territory, gestation period.
Mating rituals. Use of alcohol and hallucinogens.
Forms of cancer, heart disease. Burial rites, memories.
Creation myths, beliefs for which there is no evidence.
Range: tundra to tropics.

I was sixteen, and darkness had fallen
and we’re riding our bikes.

The boys I’m riding with
turn onto 95th street
and I follow
even though we’re headed towards
a white neighborhood.

I figured we were going to turn around
as the first set of railroad tracks
pass under my wheels
I feel fear
creeping over me.

I tell them we should turn
around.
They only laugh
and pedal faster.

I sure as hell
don’t want to go forward
but can’t go back
by myself.

So I plunge into the night
behind the fools on wheels
as we rattle over the
second set of tracks
I know we’ve gone
way too far.

Cars swerve close
horns blaring
laughter in the voices
of my friends
(years before extreme sports)-

as the high-beams light on
our backs
and I see my shadow
splattered
on the ground
in front of me.

They laugh as windows
are rolled down
curses are flung
along with pieces of garbage
at us.

My nerves jangle
as cars slow down
then pass with a shout of
“NIGGERRRRS!”
I’m not ashamed to admit
that on that dark
summer’s night
my nut-sack clenched up
like a peach pit
and shoved my testicles
up into my guts.

Along we rode
another mile
I’d given up on trying to say
anything
their bicycles were bigger
and they were stronger.
They slowly began to pull
away.

I followed as they
turned right on Pulaski
where blacks could get mobbed
and beaten
in broad daylight.
I wished for a street
without so many lights.

I felt like a cockroach on a wedding cake.
The cars hooted and honked
and swerved at us
like mad bulls.

The passengers cursed
and spat and screamed.
I couldn’t even sweat.

We turned right on 87th street
and headed back east
back towards our mixed neighborhood.

They really began to pump
leaving me further
and further
behind.

My heart raced.
A wheeze rattled through my lungs
and I cursed them all.

As we reached Western Avenue
I broke away from them
and rode home
their laughter
pelting dryly
against my back.