then came soft rain

 

the moon hates me

 

i like using nails

 

park avenue pumpkin

 

the hungry cat

 

the people on the train

 

heat bug

 

ink

 

the ballpark

 

 NINE

 

I.

 

II.

 

III.

 

IV.

 

V.

 

VI.

 

VII.

 

VIII

 

IX.


Then Came Soft Rain

papers caught up in a hub
big blow surely to come up
lock all doors, board windows shut.
then came soft rain.

bolt up back, nail wall’s ruts, from
prying wind; save rattling cup
time to take stock: to hurry up.
then came soft rain.

spice-filled scent, sea-bird lament
darkness stumbled forth,(then went.).
sea descends, scarred surf foam vents,
then came soft rain.

The Moon Hates Me

the moon hates me,
and i hate the moon.

the water bathes me, and i
make it black.

it’s spinning light, goes down the spout,
presses passed to meet sea out

(it’s not exactly what i had i mind.).

the moon hates me,
and i hate the moon.

the strawberrymoon,
(and i hate it back.).

I Like Using Nails

I like to use nails, that are already there, as
If somebody else, had it all figured out: had worked
Their way through it; the thought, the idea
of where a something should be: (less work for me).

As I sat watching her picture,
Which stubbornly refused to fit,
On the radio, in the kitchen,
Where we both eat and sit

One bone autumn night,
With her tucked, far away,
A tiny white nail, on the door,
made my day.

park avenue pumpkin

it’s autumn in new york.

pigeon people waiting;
others blow about like
brittle leaves, in the street.

(yesterday, I saw a pumpkin selling jewelry
on park avenue.).

park avenue pigeon people,
pumpkin lady in the street.

park avenue pumpkin.

(rush hour 1972)

the hungry cat

1.
the watcher

When thinking comes, a frequent visit
A frantic pace, (where am ‘I’ in it)
Am I the watcher or the watched?
The talker, or the listener.

‘Who is there?’, (Is it me),
Or is it someone I should flee
How often down this street I’ve marched:
The whistled, or the whistler.

Arms outstretched, palms held high
In short length I come to realize why
When thinking came, a frequent guest,
I couldn’t get one moment’s rest.

2.
the talker

When talker talks, the listener listens
A brisk thought walk, where’s ‘I’ in this?
Chasing sticks thrown by mind
Dogcatcher or the catched?

‘Who goes there?’, (Is it I),
Any hope to know this rhyme?
Un-hoed remains this hill of mine
All caught up, yet uncatched.

I plant my feet in hallowed ground
Of voices, the familiar sound
Discussions that will steal the space
Of being grounded in this place.

3.
the hungry cat

While hungry cat sits eyeing mouse
‘Other’ and ‘I’ slog through the house
Strong Father ‘I’ cries Mother ‘Other’,
Turn in pursuit, chase one another.

Problem ‘is’, could not exist
Without a complex birth like this
Masked and drunk force of despair,
Observant self sucks out all air.

Hypnotic background, absent wealth
Less grain of sand, (observant self)
Sees all; reports, a complex hand,
Sure none is missed by High Command.

the people on the train

the people on the train, in the middle of the
day, in the middle of the week, are sad,
(she said.).

at least in brooklyn, I think it’s true; not sure
about manhattan, (in the middle of the
week.).

you know what I mean, the people on the
train, in the middle of the day, in the middle
of the week,

you know what I mean, the people on the
train, in the middle of the day, in the middle
of the week,

the people on the train, in the middle of the
day, in the middle of the week: (the people
on the train.).

the people on the train, in the middle of the
day, in the middle of the week: the people
on the train.

the people on the train in the middle of the
day, in the middle of the week are sad,
she said.

you know what I mean, the people on the
train, in the middle of the day, in the middle
of the week.

you know what I mean, the people on the
train, in the middle of the day, in the middle
of the week,

you know what I mean, the people on the
train, in the middle of the day, in the middle
of the week,

the people on the train, in the middle of the
day, in the middle of the week: (the people
on the train.).

heat bug

heat bug waits so patiently,
he wiry peds voraciously,
lies on his back, deck steaming, wet
his carcass, red lamps face, and shed.

say:
tick ticky ticky ticky!,
tick ticky ticky ticky!
tick ticky ticky ticky,
ticky ticky ticky tick!

(studiously approaching, we, with
cautious stooped step creaking, croaching)
till, sensing it was quite enough,
he flies directly, (almost touching):

”solzhenitsyn! solzhenitsyn!”, we shouted out
(for no good reason), thrown, tossed, dispelled,
dissolved, repelled, broadcast in all direction:
for we did not know what heat bugs were,
(and what was solzhenitsyn?).

back every each new age, or so
(someone keeps track of these things, you know.).
six stretchful years for child to grow,
inside the earth, they sleep below, then:

drawn by draw to ugly things,
one and again, we form a ring
till heat bug thinks,”that’s close enough”
flips right side up, whirrs buzzdust wings,

”sholtzsinetsin!”, we all scream: then
dissolve, in four directions,
(like the wind.).

ink

squid eye visitor
bagged and missing
white-cold airbox
landlocked prison

boot-black oil filled
death stare squinter
fish food fanfare
night time mission
(i look away, and shut the door quickly.).

squeezing mast rot
sea brimmed traveller
brineful bustle,
handling jailer
creatures outstretched,
fish-inked, fingers,

(a wrinkle, pointing:
a rust stained sinkfull.

ink.

The Ballpark

Body starts it’s slow unwind,
Begins to end it’s slog through time
And one day (soon?), the spark subsides
One pulpy, flesh cell, at a time.

A clock’s relentless tock, it ticks
Like ballpark lights that timed shut click one
Glowering tower at a time, one night
When you least suspect a change in sight.

Who knows when that hour comes
Or how fast the play of their life runs
Some insights are not meant for us:
Like, finally, where I rest, sublime.

(tue 6:26 am)