New York, New York

 07/01/10

8:19 AM

Bay Ridge, Brooklyn

 

New York, New York

 

Busy streets, crowded pathways.

The agonizing stench of charred meat and traffic smog filled the air.

A crammed-full procession of wheels turning infrequently.

Earsplitting clamor of angry voices and dead-beat street singers.

Runners and walkers interweaving on solitary trails.

A society assembled in a riotous foyer of an enormous metropolis.

Amidst all the humming and bustling

An unquiet mind is erratically nomadic.

Eager to connect with new a soul,

Looking to discuss the oddities of everyday,

Boast the know-how of a bizarre expertise.

Discuss the satirical antagonism of pietism and that of bureaucracies.

Yet with all present, not one listens.

All and sundry walked with glasslike crates, incarcerated.

Without the risk contact and collision.

Connection is undesirable, injurious.

Communication simply belonged to the lunatic.

A Going Away

5/27/10

12:46 pm

Bay Ridge

 A Going away

On a dark grey afternoon,

Underneath the dismal skies

I stood there waiting.

And the echoes of weeping implied a going away.

A bad taste in my mouth of an inevitable departure.

Whimpering unutterably.

Its frankness appalling, insulting my wits.

As they lowered you to the ground

With you, my childhood, I bury.

A jovial nostalgia of sentimental trinkets.

The blanket I dandle.

A bed time story declaimed.

Commemorating the cuts and bruises of a joyful childhood.

The Fighter

05/24/10

1:26 pm

Bay Ridge

 The Fighter

Come out! He said.

His fists overpowering his brawny arms,

Resembling entwined twigs ready to withstand a prodigious twister.

The entrance was shut, dull, as the wood was mugged.

Clenched fists were thrown incessantly like mad hailstones.

Pounding, conquering.

If there was music, there was only disharmony

For the rhythm was inappropriately dreadful. 

He was anxious for what may arise,

But his anger threw down the gauntlet.

And as he waged war with the entryway,

A duel wasn’t imposed.

There was no uproar to strike back.

Instead, silence was given in return.

The reticence of the closed entrance seemed to triumph over his fury

Like the smell of incense on sacred grounds.

And as he rested his now fatigued and bloodied hands

He walked away surrendering,

Overcame with irony,

As if punches weren’t thrown.

Mister Critter the Writer

05/13/10

12:13 pm

Apt. 2

 Mister Critter the Writer

Hush now, listen.

The boisterous wind is robust.

The fret critter runs amuck.

The labyrinth opens wide.

It’s netting collapsing, weakness uncovered.

History is on the verge of fading away.

Stalwart ties broke free as tales of old became unlocked.

The critter coiled on brittle threads,

As they dangled feebly in the night.

Then dawn came and the wind was hushed.

The unwavering critter uncurled. 

Undeterred by destruction,

 it weaved an edifice from the ruins of tempest.

Without protest, it marched.

It toiled without question,

 no compunction.

Thread by thread, strapped and tied.

History made anew.

We are pretentious lyricists and ambiguous liars.

 Portraying actuality as it would be if it’s begging for accolade.

We sugarcoat, we deliver pleasantries

Making a mockery of what is genuinely there.

The truth however is never self-adorning

It need not to be made a make-believe.

It’s surreal but never imaginary.

Its simplicity is never understood without difficulty,

Yet its appalling honesty is sufficiently adequate.