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 using 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 flower picture,

Which continually refused to fit, 

On the radio, in the kitchen, 

Where we both eat and sit, 

One bone autumn night,

With her, far away, 

A tiny white nail, on the door, 

made my day.


park avenue pumpkin

it’s autumn in new york.

puddle people perch, near news stands,

others blow about like brittle leaves, 

in the street.

yesterday, I saw a pumpkin selling jewelry

on park avenue.

parkavenuepumpkinlady 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.).



the 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.

says:

tick ticky ticky ticky!,

tick ticky ticky ticky!

tick ticky ticky ticky

ticky ticky ticky tick! 

studiously approaching, with cautious

stooped step creaking, croaching,

till, sensing it was quite enough,

he flies directly: almost touching.

solzhenitsyn! solzhenitsyn!, 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 who was solzhenitsyn?).

back every each new age, or so

(someone keeps track of these things, you know.).

seven stretchy years for child to grow,

inside the earth, they sleep below, then:


drawn by draw to ugly things, 

one again, we form a ring 

till heat bug thinks,:’”that’s close enough”, 

flips right side up, with buzz dust wings,


Sholtzsinetsin!, Sholtzsinetsin!, we all scream!,  

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)