The Policemen

That Friday afternoon
Two motorcycle cops,
Dressed to intimidate
Arrived at my front door.

Before discussing my complaint
He ordered me to control my dog,
Who was simply standing by my side..

It was not a request,
Nor were any further comments he made.
Both men refused to remove their dark glasses,

They left after advising me
That I could be put in jail
If they thought it appropriate,
And never did listen to my concern.

Dressed in black,
They never smiled,
Completing the hackneyed stereotype,
Assigned to them by movie legend.

Which side of civilization,
Do they represent?
If guardians, who was beginning guard?

Starbucks on 67th St.

A recreation of self-absorption
First experienced in a Hopper painting.
Someone added the softer lighting and computers,
Making the night scene less desolate.

No one defies the “no smoking” rule
Nor is there a sense of impending drama.
The place , like a black and white photo
Feels sterile.

10 people, one to each small round table.
Most have a lit computer screen,
Suggesting that they are terribly busy
Or hoping to feel that way

People are not draining their cardboard cups
In advance of the inevitable “lights out”.
Those cups are the props that allow this place
To serve as a metaphor for some half forgotten movie scene,
In which the protagonist ponders his existence.

Perhaps I project the sense of fear
Enveloping the coffee shop. As though,
These people, seeking assurances that
This place will keep the demons
From insinuating their presence,
Will permit time to stand fixed,
And “closing time” deferred forever.

An Angry Call for Help

He smashed his hand down.
The counter top would certainly vibrate under the blow.
It did not.
His open fist had fallen on the knife’s edge.

Raising his arm a second time
He repeated the insanity,
Then subsided, looking at the blood,
Feeling the pain and the satisfaction.

Not being a small man
He’d damaged his hand, severely.
She’d certainly be contrite,
Less argumentative.

Who would he tell?
Many shocked, would offer
Sympathy, comfort
And suggestions.

As I consider the vision.
And twist away,
Did I contribute to this?
Did I enable, disable, or merely observe?

I felt his plight, became annoyed,
Long before the hand came down.
I’d made suggestions.
Was there something else?

Unfinished sculptures in Florence
Show incomplete men struggling for release.
Half mud, half man,
Never reaching light or peace.

Andy

I’m heading south.
No money, years of concealment
Ripped open, in a moment of anguish.
Not a well planned departure.

My life is passing.
Yet I have not ventured
Beyond my accustomed boundaries.
How will my people respond to my heresy?

I said the word “gay”
But no inner voice responded “thank god”.
I loosed the whirlwind
Trying to be what my 15 year-old body wanted,
And still drives me to the edge of madness.

That need, never dissipated.
It still ravages my nights,
A 60-year -old neophyte,
Compelled to taste from Adam’s tree.

Will I survive without my material comforts,
My family’s love?

Do not speak of others’ explorations.
The tragedies of lives lost,
Or families tore asunder.
Comparative disasters offer no succor.

I dare not look back; surely the furies will ride me to ground.
I cannot look forward, a pathetic senior
Desperately needing a mans touch.

Waiting

Karaoke has just started.
18 people have been pushed into position
Where they can watch the screen,
Listen to the music and enjoy.

Most appear to be sleeping,
Their frail, immobile, bodies
Bear witness to races run,
And limited futures.

One octogenarian makes her way
To our visitor table.
Pushing her wheelchair between us
She has questions to ask.

Unable to fully express herself,
She listens to our conversation,
Hoping to find purchase.
This is not a place for aspirations.

Billed as a rehabilitation center
It serves as a human holding tank,
Where all, all, save one, are waiting.
A place where old people
Revert to childhood,
Suffer pain, indignity and death

Fire Works

Colors and noise
Fill the sky
In a grand display of human ingenuity

Reds and greens morph into blues.
Explosions, as the ashes precursor
Loss their struggle with gravity.

Car horns join the celebration
As the vibrations call them to life.
I smile, recalling other light shows
Some from a Brooklyn roof top.

Looking to’rd Coney Island
I recall sharing the spectacle
With a dozen neighbors.
Our Saturday night special.

Kids drank cokes, adult’s beer.
I do not scream now,
But it was so-o-o exciting then,
And there were others
Who shared my joy.

Marty, Morty, Harvey, Bert & Herbie,
Boys of 2134 Homecrest Ave.
Die hard, very hard Dodger fans,
United Saturday nights,
June through Labor day.
Watching the roof-top show.

In June we were awestruck,
Mesmerized by the spectacle,
Before August ended we were “mavens”,
Semi-professional fire works critics.

“I don’t know, Marty?”, said Bert,
I’m thinkin da last 4 reds didn’t spread so much,
And the finale, Christ, it was maybe 15 seconds!”

It couldn’t have been all that sweet,
I wouldn’t allow for that.
But damn I feel so-o-o good.

Beliefs

Judging the entries was not easy.
I brought too much “adult” to the children’s holiday cards.
“Are the drawings clever, do the words warm me?
Can I use the same standards for a 1st & 5th grader?

Most of them wished for “peace”.
Was the submission that showed
A Christmas tree and a menorah a child’s hope,
Or a parent’s belief?
And did it matter?

Every entry used reds and blues,
Bright colors along with holiday greetings,
No “Christmas” on any of the 26 submissions,
Although a few had non-denominational angels.

With only 3 ribbon-bearers to choose
How indifferent would all the others
Pretend to be?
Why not 26 blue ribbons?

I believe that children have children’s dreams.
I believe that “possibility” starts with them.
I believe they can soften my cynicism.
I beileve Dr. King might have been right.

madness

I thought the screams,
Of the Brooklyn Dodger fans,
A magnificent madness.
Now I seek sanity,
My position as judge absurd.

So many believers
Intent on confronting enemies.
Perhaps we should start over,
Implore Job to explain.

Silence would be a start.
Listening for soft voices,
Kierkegaard would tell me there is a way,
“You may believe, but only you.”.

It is not without recompense,
This madness.
We are comforted by agreements.
Unity trumps reason,
We may be invited to Alice’s Tea Party.

I confess to being an optimist.
On good days the king is naked,
He smiles down on his subjects.
They are naked.

I watch a child at his first ball game.
A vast stadium, he is awestruck.
It seeks the boys acknowledgement.
His private service is starting.

Alan

My light is fading.
I’ve no breath o deny my birthright.
All things pass.
All things are the past.

Who will stop and remember,
Offer a blessing or a curse?
I will be quiet.

Did I shed light, offer love, and speak kindly?
I hope, maybe sometimes?
Will you recall me as concerned?
Did we share a joke, an exhalation?

I am not ready.
I wish to have stayed.
What would I will those who gathered near?
Can you find joy?
Walls that shelter, for a while?
Please stop
Breathe deep and turn around once.

Such sad faces,
Could we dance, just once?
Oh god, the mistakes, the foolishness.
I will not miss the weight

Good by.