Gas

March 10, 1978

My imagination

Shapes sound

In the night

The creaking plank

Outside my door

Footsteps climbing

Stairs I know

Are not my neighbor’s

Too silent a wraith

For souls for whom

Silence is a sin

And I huddle closer

To the storm for warmth,

And the soothing

Sound of gas

And it’s always

Enticing whisper of sleep.

Is that the door handle

I hear rattling?

Is that a stranger

Seeking to come in

Out of the cold?

Or seeking to steal warmth

I’ve already convinced

Myself to give up?

Seduced

By the whisper

Of gas

Key to the kingdom (from notebooks -- though significantly reworked)

 I touch the hard spot with the soft side of my forefinger

Lingering with the tip on the lip of a keyhole I ache to invade

A spot shot with warmth and wet from excess

And the need to go deeper to reach the keep

Beyond the frail veil that of wailing and wonder,

Beyond the shuddering and the cries of the dark of night

Beyond the moans and groans and feigned protests

Or the shrill cries of pleasure pain raining over me

Down deep beyond the veiled promises and seductive rites

To that place where all real secrets reside,

To that place where all life is ripe

Down where all pain turns to pleasure,

And all pleasure to pain,

This key to that door, that wondrous gate

I ache to swing wide and enter,

To forsake all else for paradise

That wonderful, amazing, irresistible,

Gold mine

of your mind.

Yet another notebook entry -- very recent

"Nobody can tell you how to live your life but you," that savvy nun once told me on the sly when I got dragged to the office again, a constant petitioner for mercy I long ceased to deserve, she thinking I would rethink the direction I was already steered in, the shadow of prison bars showing on my face, long before I ever saw the inside of a jail cell, God showing in her eyes with the flashes of lightning and judgment I did not reckon with, preferring to steer my life in which ever way I wanted with nothing written in stone, writing my life with a number 2 pencil not pen and ink, hoping that when I got to the pearly gates God had an eraser. "Nobody can tell you how to live your life," the nun said again just as the ruler cracked me across my knuckles.

More notebook -- undated

She tells me she is like the wind and I believe her, breathing her in and out as if jogging through a hurricane, every part of me fully engaged, touching and being touched, flowing up and over, under and around, falling deep and rising high, my head pounding with the impacts no hurricane warning could prepare me for, mother nature -- if that's who she is -- humbling me, forcing me to my knees, making me breathe deep with hope that I don't drown

Notebook stuff -- undated

I taste blood, but I don't know which one of us is bleeding, or if it comes from inside or out. I don't even feel the pain of it, having rubbed so long the same spot until I would either bleed or explode, love rubs whole lives together with hope to spread fire, stirring coals up inside, heat making me breathe flame out of the intensity of pain, shaping a point where pain and bliss meet and make love.

Unicorn (reflection on Hudson County)

I’m too long in this game
To believe innocence exists
Skeptical when I come
Nose to nose with it
Refusing to believe it
The way I refuse to believe in
UFOs or Big Foot, or even God,
Shattered when finally 
I see it wilt,
Its hard shell cracked open
by reality’s hard knocks
like seeing a unicorn drowned
in polluted water
I swim in without harm

 They say: give a man enough rope,

 he might hang himself,

 tied up, gagged, unable to move

 or do except what he is told

 ordered silent and to submit or else

 this intense twice

 tied up inside and out,

 pulled tight from the groin,

 though it is really the heart 

that binds him

 twisting the hemp ever tighter

 each time he disobeys,

 waiting for the moment

 when he is relieved, 

a kiss, a cuddle, a sign of kindness, 

he aches for or explodes

willing to do just about anything

 to make it happen, 

and as the gag ties up his tongue,

he generally does.

Invisible men

I’ve always confused

One book with the other,

A sci fi classic

With the morality play

And vice versa

Never fully understanding

What it means to be either

Until I became one

Or the responsibility

That comes with being unseen,

The power of the good side

Or the dark side of the force,

The requirement of those

Who invisible men profess

to love help stay whole

knowing that love

is the most powerful force

in the universe

even when unrequited,

and that giving it freely

and expecting nothing in return

is love in its purest form

needing no light saber

or magic formula

bearing no prejudice

only presence.

Love of nature

The rain patters on my cheeks

But I’m not crying

Love isn’t blind, it’s blindingly bright

Even in weather like this

The river, the soft swell

Filling up each step

As I stumble along this path

No destination except

Where I already am

No thought except to

Embrace this moment

The warmth breath of spring

That has not yet blossomed

And may never but is always

A bud wanted to burst

Full of the ache of anticipation

And the whisper of some voice

I can almost but not quite hear,

All life lingering

On the edge of a dream

Those who love it

Need only to listen

To its song

For deep in that voice,

In the gurgle of the river

Truth can be found

And we spend a lifetime

Working out the harmony

And love of nature

Is often simply being there

And waiting

And breathing deep.

Plucking the celestial virgins (or Happiness is a warm gun) (with video)

April 1, 1980

Stoned again

They have terms for fools like me who huddle under dim light bulbs in dark rock clubs, jotting down words we hope someone, someday might want to read

            The back beat of the drum kit reverberates as much through me as through the walls or floor, setting something in motion inside me I can’t put a stop to.

            And this isn’t really a rock club like the clubs we usually play in, but a public performance space in a religious college for girls, who hope some day to become nuns, but aren’t acting like nuns tonight, needing to get in now what they won’t get later, ladies of faith who have no faith that their marriage to Christ will be enough, stripping off their habits for this night as an offering for later nights when they might wish they had – and we lucky enough to have arrived in their hour of need, looking better in their eyes than we actually look, taking what we want while we can get it before the chastity belt snaps shut and we lose the opportunity for ever.

And as always, I need to document these close encounters, seeking some other meaning from this other than what they obviously mean, looking as The Eagles point out, for love in all the wrong places and getting my invite to a deeper circle of hell reserved for those who cuckold Christ and mess with his celestial virgins – and I wonder at the end of this, if what we get now is worth eternal damnation, and if these future nuns think about it as I do, and do they even care.

Turn, turn

Bob Dylan or Pete Seeger,

Or even The Byrds stirs

Inside my head

With the change of season

A dial-up menu to

The assorted feelings I feel

Sorrow, pain, guilt

Gladness, and then what?

Is there a season

For being right?

Or wrong?

Or some point in-between

When I discover

A difference?

All the leaves

Are not brown,

And I have no need

To wear a flower

In my hair,

I need no pill to

Make me tall

Or small,

And that the last thing

I needed or wanted

Was love,

But can’t get it out

Of my head,

And that wild horses

Can drag me away,

And indeed it has been

A cold, cold winter,

And it is better to let

Roxanne do whatever

She needs to survive,

And what I need most

To start me up

In a good look

In the mirror,

And maybe

A clean shave

On a green day

When moss isn’t

Growing on

A rolling stone

Honey

I eat it up

That last lick

Of warm honey

I find

At the bottom

Of the jar

Straining

My tongue

To reach deep

Inside,

Then lingering

On the grooves

Near where

The lid loosens

Where the sweetness

Hides in the

Folds of glass

The tip of my tongue

Missing not a drop

The golden cream

The busy bees

Churned up,

The taste of it

Warming me

From the inside out

That amazing nectar

I can’t live

Without

Solace

I return to this water

Each time to renew,

When the walls close in

In that other world

I don’t ever understand

Where I am always

Stubbing someone else’s toes

Where I always say the wrong thing

Make the wrong move

Hurt the wrong people

When I know no better

Than to think I might

Make things better

But make them worse

When sorry sounds sad

Rather than sincere

When I ache for redemption,

I find it here, flowing over me

Inside of me, around me,
even when I know

I’ve been wrong.

Small

I always used to be small

In my dreams,

The perpetual little boy

Who got lost from his parents

Not in a mall

There were no malls

When I was small

But in some large place

Filled with scuffed tiles

And tall people

Who didn’t know

How to smile.

I say lost to my parents

For whom I cried and cried,

But who were still

Not there when I woke up

These days I dream big

Not so much of me

But of a world

And its problems,

Though the space

I roam through

Still seems cold and remote,

And though I imagine

I still cry in my dreams

It is not for parents I cannot find

And never had to lose,

But for something

I cannot easily find

And won’t be there

Even when I wake up

Shadows

The river swirls with shadows

On this bright day in spring,

Shadows twisted out of shape

By currents or fish

Or even the ducks

That swim to shore to feed

Or even when the wind blows

And leaves float down

Or the branches

The branches mirror stir,

Shadows aching to be trees

To grow high and strong

To sink down deep roots

Shadows mocked by movement

Never more than shallow

Imitations of those they ache to be,

Rising and falling

With tides they cannot control,

Battered by cloud bursts

Struggling not to fade

There but not there

Real and yet unreal

Strong yet not strong enough,

Aching for the day

When they can be real

Trees and not fade away

Being a mused?

I never wanted to live

My life as a ghost

Haunting the edges

Of things I love

To watch

Unable to touch,

To feel,

But not felt,

Except as a remote

Presence

But Homer sang

To his muses

And this thought

Inspires me

The power of connection

That reaches beyond

The edges of the world

Defying life or death

Or any of the petty details

We get saddled with

To inspire and be inspired

To go on to become

Something greater

Than I could ever be alone

I hear its songs

Each time I stroll the river side

Filling my lungs with its breath

My nostrils with its scent

Letting its thoughts

Fill my head

Until I no longer know

Which part is me

And which is muse

Nor do I care.

Big Fish

He drinks water

And pretends he has gills

Thinking he’s a big fish

In a small pond

Until he sees her

She breathing things

Too deep for him

To swim in,

A drowning man

Gasping for air,

Forced to survive

On each breath

She lets out,

Learning to be content

As a small fish

In her small pond,

Learning to breathe deep

Without drowning

What’s it all about, Alfie? (with video)

What’s it all about, Alfie?

With a name like “Alfred,”

I struggled a lot growing up,

Especially after that stupid

Song came out:

What’s it all about, Alfie?

People never stopped asking me that

What’s it all about?

As if I was some kind of wise man

Instead of the class clown

As if not getting a date

With the most popular girl

In high school

Didn’t hurt

What’s it all about, Alfie?

Some names just make you

Work harder

To get over or around them

And when you’re like me

And didn’t show a lot of talent

For much of anything

Trying was never enough

What’s it all about, Alfie?

And maybe I am still a little jealous

Of people who get where they got

Without a bad name

Like the girl from college I did date

Whose long legs I last saw

Climbing into a stretch limo

In front of Trump on Central Park west,

Or the bully I had to beat up

When he wouldn’t stop trying to beat me up

Who got honored as a hero cop,

Or my best friend who stepped in shit

So often he never worked a day in his life

What’s it all about, Alfie?

I keep trying to find something

I thought I’d lost

But maybe never had,

Something that always slips out

From between my fingers

Each time I think I’ve got

A handle on it,

Something I can’t get

Good name or bad,

Something I want more

Than life itself

Always I’d be hard pressed

To put a name on it

What’s it all about, Alfie?

Beats me.

A tulip in the yard (part of the Spring series)

I poke the yellow tulip

With the tip of my forefinger

The soft silent bell

Ringing loudly inside me

A drip of dew dripping out

From its center,

My finger as curious as

Any bee’s, seeking

The secret nectar

From far down inside

A hurried in and out

As sunset threatens

To close the flower

Around me

And keep us both contained

Through the cold, chill night,

And I wonder what

It smells like if indeed

It has a smell at all,

Or tastes like

As I press my face into it

My lips against its lips,

Then my tongue in its mouth,

It shuddering almost as much

As I shudder, this precious

Bit of life poking at me

Out of the rich brown loam,

This testimony to rebirth,

That fills my mouth, my lungs

My heart, this one lick

Of rising spring that flows

Over me, inside me, through me,

Giving rebirth there, too

Mudflats (with photos)

 There is no help for it

The tide rolls out

And leaves the world exposed

The bones of this river

Mudflats dark

With my most secret thoughts

Blessed by the scalding sun

And the squawk of sea gulls,

Who mock all they see,

This unholy world

Filled with the disguised

Urges, the scrapping crab claws

The always vulnerable silver gillies,

And the foot prints of scavengers

Scrawled across the brown surface

In a covert language of their own,

The remnants of tiny dinosaurs

Not yet extinct,

This deplorable inner beauty

I deny in waking, but always return to

In my dreams, stirring up

The most savage desires shorn of

When the rich blue water covers it,

This elemental truth

Each of us must face,

In our struggle to survive

Or even thrive,

Our lives flushed out

By the movement of heavenly bodies,

So we can examine it

Take comfort in who we are

Regardless of what others think,

Or how we should be,

Knowing that in this ebb and flow

It is simply glorious

To be alive

  

A cup of coffee (with video)

All she wanted was a cup of coffee

And some quiet conversation

To make that dark night

Come out all right

We seated in the front seat

Of my Ford Pinto

As if on our first date

That woman I never saw

Before or since

But think about often

Feeling regret over someone

Whose name she only mumbled

And whose face I barely saw

She needing this to be something

More than what it was

Not love so much as

Something not meaningless

As if she saw something in my face

She missed in all the other men

She’d shared front seats with

A cup of coffee

And a bit of conversation

To make it all come out all right

She would even pay for the coffee

On that cold New York City night

When everything seemed strange

And remote, and I

Foolishly lonely,

Did what every other man did,

I said, no.

Reading the river (with video)

I read the river
The way gypsies
Read tea leaves
Searching the surface
For signs of truth,
Omens of things to come,
Remnants of what once was
My life lost in these eddies
This backwater
Of bobbing soda bottles
And expired condoms
Bits of me washing away
In the sudden flash flood
Of a heavy rain,
I walk here,
Searching the sides
Of this utterly dark stream,
For signs of what comes next.
Should I hunker down?
Or like the reeds
Stretch out to bend
With the gusts of wind?
And I am always surprised
By the outcome,
Always somehow managing
To survive
The worst of storms
 

Stars do shine

  

I can’t always see the stars

from where I sit on my front stoop,

Although I know behind the heavy clouds

or cast of lights from the big city,

they are there.

Sometimes, I catch glimpses of them blinking

As the cloud cover parts, reminding me

That they are always there

Remote, often invisible friends

I can’t always see or touch,

But sometimes might drawn warmth from

In the deepest need,

Icons to come greater

And more powerful universe

Of which I am still a part,

Fixed elements in some universal plan

I am too small to see in whole,

A plan I have not devised

But which has devised me,

Who on this side of that great divide

Can merely wait, and watch

Patiently.