Saturday, March 19, 2011


the graveyard shift




starts before it begins
subway doowop gospel quartet
one dollar bonus ride
donkey jacket knuckle five
keeps a smile on your face
keeps your forehead wrinkle free
keeps your hair from being messed up
"Thanks everyone,
you just bought us
three packets
of oreo." ha ha
"By the end of the day,
we are goin' to be flyin'!"
subterranean high speed
whistle stop jammin
sweeping through
collecting loose
dollar
I am saved
rockin on down
under 25th




the graveyard shift:
the one who patrolled
the cemetery at night
to listen for the cries
of the resurrected
coma-people
buried before their time

to draw attention to
the re-awakened
state of death
please pull
a string tied
to your former deceased finger
passed through a hole in the casket
connected to a bell or flag

dead ringer saved by the bell





images:
sub-way
pyramid saves remains
wave to liberty





Thursday, March 10, 2011

Chapel of Sweet Dreams

Turn-Up, Tune-In, Turn-On, Echo-Echo
@ St. Paul's Chapel, Columbia University

video


Saturday, March 5, 2011



Coney Iceland



Coney Island is an isle not an island

a Russian enclave in the heart of US

ice and snow cover the sandy beach

countless, dormant seagulls squat

surf scavenging snowballs


the Brave put the brave face into weather vein

forever strolling on the boardwalk planks’ pain

puffed up quilted skydiving promenade

tears torn from too tender eyes

jaw face numbed to ice blasted skin



rides moan mournful - dirges to desolation

once bright - peeling paint - candy cannot lift

un - peopled, un - moving empty sensations

seafront saloons gone wild west ghost town

dodge city deserted SHOOT THE FREAK fun

abandoned, decaying, corroded, uncared-for

waiting for spring clean new investment to come


finding shelter reminds me of past days spent

at so many seaside towns of youth

seeking respite amid silent out of season concrete

hands shaking blue intensely to construct

gratefully received bites of brutish food

accepting grainy crunches of seasoning sand

with a hunger greater than hygene

or sophistication



Seagulls dance closer

performing for scraps

no time here for loitering

savouring the meal

whisk all back into the bag

dash off to find

the warmth of a cup of coffee


Walk down Brighton beach to the Russian zone, where the inhabitants live in the same giant apartment blocks as can be found in soviet monumental ‘new city’ housing projects.


Occasional old folk occupy benches

white knuckled hands hold

pocket radios to ears

catch scratch crackled chattering ether

Russian tin can broadcast

through white noise wind



no day to be at the beach

no expectancy in the crude and rude amusements

shut-down shuttering resigned to knowing

there will be no punters today

nothing to animate the inanimate

except flapping plastic bags

clinging to lightbulbs and lampposts

spectral sand shapes whisking about

expansive vacant shores

in vain searches

only to fall away...


Chilled to the bone head emptied

eyes wet made red make for train

without even desire for souveneir

Passing monumental tribute

to world hotdog eating championships

reflecting the level popular culture has attained here