• Learning to Fly Without Loving to Crash

    I can’t imagine going back
    To dodging the booby traps
    After flying low to scope the landscape
    After scraping treetops on the descent

    It’s been a while since the last crash landing
    Losing bearings, instruments failing
    Natives rescuing with bucket brigades
    I loved when gravity took over

    When I signed the armistice confession
    The civilians ceased to starve and burn
    In justice prevailed the open hearts
    Into the wild blue yonder they ran

    Now I’m left with this sensation of falling
    Not in any particular direction
    It’s more of a freedom pitched flight
    Leveling to the upright postures

    I’m learning to fly again
    Without the weightless flex
    Without a net
    Without the deep love of crashing

  • Blue Nebulous

  • The Port Authority

    The bus is a rough way to travel–rough on the tires, rough on the mind. It’s rough on the tired mind. This port has full authority over the hard reality of every departure–every flight–the transient lines, the commutation, the brutal architecture. I am still enamored with any film from the 70s starring Steve McQueen. I’m still amazed by the vintage struggle of every beating wing in the Port Authority.

  • Still New Jersey

    Another New Jersey night raid
    Through the hills of melancholy malls
    Outside the realm of American norms
    Home to the still dreaming tribes

    In a concrete dowry
    Her gift is bestowed
    Upon the Prince of travel
    Still the mystery begs to unravel

    Where is your great continental heart?
    That once pumped with Springsteen blood
    Now a stent is laid that I may pass
    Once again trudging through your mass

  • The Cigarette Lady

    There will be no sleeping for me this morning, on the long-haul commuter bus from Kingston to Port Authority. The suspension has a great shark’s bite on the smallest of bumps. The air conditioning is hammering the back of my neck. The “cigarette lady” has chosen her seat directly behind mine.

    Out of the corner of my sleepy eye, I see her yellowed hand imposing a little on my periphery. I smell the sour acrid gag of stained and spotty organs. Her cough begins shortly after departure, lung and trachea protest the imposed sanctions. As the nicotine receptors settle in to the martial law, the listless lack of oxygen will huff the grey cloud of sleep upon the tarred and charcoal soul. She claims the seat next to hers for streaked and straining capillaries of lower extremities, and soon enough she will floats off into the thick atmosphere of dreams, snoring in Chinese.

  • Summer Flowers

    Are there still weddings in this weather?
    It seems that the brides would melt into pools of anxious sugary syrup.
    I suppose the show must go on.
    I’m not as cynical as I once was.
    This activity is no stranger to me than sports or watching television.

    But I do worry about the wilting flowers.
    They will begin to lean over the second the ceremony is over.
    They will question their decision to bear blossom.
    They will falter faced with rainy seasons.

    Care for them Mother.
    The innocent victims of Nature’s drama.
    Protect the fragile sensations.
    Keep the light high enough so they don’t wither,
    And strong enough to draw the attention of their perfect seeking faces.

  • The Oracle

  • Candy