Toast Whisperer

I was hers
a toast whisperer
salted avocado
describes much
inhaling donuts
and bleeding art
making breakfast
a blaze of glory
I'm the laziest
hard worker
that I know
please pass
the sriracha
cha cha cha

A Hobo

a hobo
had an inkling
for some tinkling
on a trashcan

nearby evangelists
tried holding
stoic and still

the frenzy
of mass transit
in old Union Sq
Avenue M
Where Marry stays
Marry is married
She's a good woman
Avenue M
Where people get married
Marriage starts
Then you get puppies
Avenue M

Composed after a Q train prattler of curious intellect announced each stop through Brooklyn with humorous exclamations.

That Itself Is A Poem

a beautiful
woman walks
past you
in the lonely
poetry section
at Strand
and that
itself is
a poem

While You Were Sleeping

While you were sleeping
and while you are awake
The dust settles on my boots
My wheels are greased by pizza
My fingers sore and wounded
with these tools in my hands
taking sweat, blood, and tears
Nothing is ever easy
and sure as hell not free
But who said it would be?
My material is in order
and I added a few beers
with one foot in the land of nod
I am living my own dream
Built piece by piece
with all the other dreamers

Morning Conductor

My morning conductor
always sounds like some
bouncer in one of those clubs
where you will never find me

Maybe he looks like
a Hell's Angel in black
Harley Davidson boots
a full beard and sunglasses

His voice is abrasive
when he tells us
to be patient in his way
like we're an inconvenience

He announces each stop
loathsomely with disgust
like an old ex-girlfriend's
name he'd rather forget

Or maybe he is happy
with his face clean shaven
he has a little Pomeranian
and is into bonsai gardening

I don't want to know
just make sure you
always stand clear
of the closing doors

My Days Are Somewhat Unique

My days are somewhat unique. I handle multimillion dollar objects in the heart of New York City. I can walk out a door and down to the subway where a homeless man is peeing and wiping himself with a napkin. The contrasts in experience are remarkable. The gaps in life are beyond full comprehension.

So on and so forth

A conductor
his flute
between stops

A father
to his two
toddlers says
Gentle hands
and inside voices
so on
and so forth

Airport Authority

Airport Authority Poem

Blew through TSA
No shoe check
Because freedom
Transportation constipation
In Newark New Jersey
Garden State Gate
Baggage claim arrows
Network security and
Global reliability ads with
Happier healthcare stories
I'm three cups deep at Ruby
Tuesday on Wednesday
7:30 a.m. American jet set trash
Too much Sangiovese the
night before in the studio
Drawing in ink is sexy
Now boarding group D
D as in delicious
Onward to Texas
I am a writer

Somewhere Over America

Dispatch at 32,000 feet. That's a lot of shoes stacked high in a low oxygen cold environment. Too windy up here for balancing that well. I'm sitting in a sky chair warm on the south side of a plane looking out over a menagerie of cloud formations and there's this thunderhead almost as big as Donald Trump's head. Can't fly to Dallas out of J.F.K. too soon. Air travel sure beats driving and wagons. Club sodas and iphones and cream-o-land in coffee, flyover country. The wing is a perfect work of art. It's not a knife cutting through air like some aesthetically disagreeable steak knife. It's more of a pie server swimming in a sea of decorative whipped cream. Suddenly everything makes sense. I'm not hungry. If only more signage was embroidered. Would we take the world more or less seriously? In the future we'll have mute buttons for other people's children. My club soda is particularly excellent though seltzer was my preference. We were willing to make a compromise. A nice couple moves to the back of the plane to join the mile high club. I'm sure of it. That or everyone wants to pee. Indeed everyone wants to pee. Maybe I'll join in the spirit of the times. Now I'm thirsty for for a beer or scotch. My gum isn't doing it for me as I groove to Mr. Big Stuff in my ear. Contemplating aeronautics and flight, it's been nearly a century since the start of World War I and we are still in the wake of that radical and crazy world. I'm ready for a nap. DB 6.25


Hot Potato

Cats sex in the alley
They hiss and scratch
With groceries in my hands
The bags are full and heavy
Night lit by streetlight
and ice glows down below
Chills get to be too intimate
Does frost it know itself to be frigid?
I'm looking forward to
roasting my sweet potatoes

Round Trip

I ordered not one but
two Manhattans
from the Italian bartender
a few blocks from
the Brooklyn Bridge
I nursed them slowly
savoring sweet bourbon
like a lazy rain
whetting my earthly
appetite for love and lust
remembering fondly
Cinque Terre and
the warm Ligurian Sea


At the curbside in
the city lay cut
evergreens in winter
their collective scent
wafts up and down
the avenues singing
those spruce tree blues
at every street
this felled forrest
is ready for collection
by the mulching men