windowsill children
crying out for me
bright colors
mating signals
for bees and humming birds
silent in the West Village
like trees falling in vacant forests

I water the helpless ones
let them sit and flaunt
tomorrow will be the same
and our tango will continue
all I am to give is water
pure photosynthetic innocence


bleed true


would it not be better if my blood could form words
that my brain fights to conjure onto the page
a pricked finger or at times and opened vein
releasing the tension of emotive pressure to be told
building the abstract obscurity of who and why we are
like Picassos and Dalis, where things are out of place
and the distance between lunacy and reality are measured
by the heart

Poignant words describe the view in the mirror
sometimes an anorexic reflection revealing half of me
if I could bleed my perception, perhaps it would be truth
a photograph of emotion, rather than this criminal sketch
coming from the eyes of a traumatized victim

burning smiles


fabricated smiles are woven
into the gnarled beard that hides me
tied on with strings of booze
sunken eyes reveal the truth
but most don’t look past bared teeth
like simians on the last rung of evolution
devoid of investigative reasoning
or simply don’t care to dig further
either way the pilot light behind these eyes
is fading
waiting for the fire to burn again
perhaps we can use fake smiles as kindling
or is that not socially acceptable?

black as day


Today is the nicest day of the year
so far as I can see from my window
the curtains have been pulled aside
but the light does not shine over me
a dark cloud hovers like penance to be paid
casting a one man thunderstorm
to disguise my tears in a brackish mix

I took a moment to run an errand
and felt the warmth of the sun’s kisses
but my heart is not on my sleeve
though it matches in color
fading into the recesses of the cesspool
perhaps someone will be brave enough
to reach into the muck to find it
and bring it somewhere to dry
placed near the flowers on a day like today



You chose to serve your country
out of the mundane life of city dwelling
becoming an escapee of the monotony
avoiding the rat race
rising up to where
the rest of the rats were descending from

No matter how sad we were to see you go
or how much we chided your decision
it was all out of love for our friend
and wanted no harm to befall you

So now, you’ve received your orders
dispatched to a war-torn corner of Earth
doing what most men avoid at all costs
leaving us waving well wishes at the port

And that is where you will find us upon your return
still waving with weary hearts rejoicing your homecoming
a beer in hand with a strong hug and a snide remark
to bring you back to where you know you were missed

All judgments cease at the ink of experience
no more comments about the evils of war
at least not from this civilian who will never know
only wanting the safe return of his old friend

Dedicated to Lt. Nick Brunetti, USMC.

Boys scattered


First day in Sixth grade
seems so far away now

One of you has a four-year-old
little girl almost as big as we were

One of you is married
a boy turned a Marine

First day in Sixth grade
seems so far away now

Little girl is growing up with Grandma
in the same courtyard we shot up with BB guns

Marine is now en route to Afghanistan
with a non-combative MOS

Sixth grade is a fixed point as we travel
our lives drifting through different waters

I hope one day we will sit together again
and recall just how far we’ve come from those boys

Grown men in our Sixties enjoying life
reminiscing on the same Sixth grade stories

Until then, travel safely my brothers
and always remember where home stays

the wait


curly and straight
in either pair of jeans
the first set of earrings
or first anything you showed me
will not make you any less
or any more beautiful
you are what you are
let’s just go



Unlike Descartes
I love, therefore I am
and you bring me to life

I am fallible
in fact, I will surely fail
but I will continue to try

Please don’t erase this truth
never let go of my hand
tossing me into solipsism

I want you to know that it is not your fault
that I was born an old snapping turtle
or that I made my home in a decaying nest

It is not your fault that you were born with long lusty legs
your grace and beauty were nature’s gift
but in your radiance, I was drawn to you

It is not your fault that you chose to land in my bog
as it is nicely stocked with fish and has lovely places to hide
Others have come and gone, unscathed to waddle elsewhere

It was my napping bite that severed your webbed foot
now you are the bog’s prized swan stuck with me
the one who crippled you into this mired life



In science they have a name for the nothing
now what is vacuum of the heart called?
happiness is muted like sound into plugged ears
and the blessing of life seems lackluster and bland

Shakespearian sonnets and Neruda’s thickened rue of words
make my sensibilities twinkle with life momentarily
only to fall dormant again as a crippled man’s toes might wiggle
a weak glimmer of hop in a long road of painful traction of the soul

Even these self flagellating words sicken me in my West Village home
lamenting my woes whilst I am provided for and healthy
housed, loved and appreciated, I still tear at my clothes
because that is what my sould calls for me to do

One day I will know true sorrow, cut to the bone
and perhaps that laceration will vent the demons
opening both an exit for the darkness and a crosswind entrance for joy

Maybe the pain will fall away naturally through life’s seasons
as have my milk teeth and stubbed purple toe nails
to allow the growth of a stronger me of more permanence

If that be the case, then this young buck is waiting for his stag’s horns.