About these ads

The White Chicken

So much depends

upon

 

the off white

chickens

 

with their yellow

beaks

 

and life giving

eggs

About these ads

this one’s for the dreamers

this one’s for the dreamers,

who believe in life after death;

Go wherever life may take you,

and never hold your breath.

But no matter how or where you’re led,

Remember to Always

keep Polaris overhead.


listen (seriously)

Don’t do drugs, but always stay high

don’t get rich, but be sure to get by

Break the rules, but always be cool

be mature, but never a bore

Try new things every day,

Hitchhike across

the USA

Explore the limits to learn their ends,

Be very careful

with who you call friends

don’t love violence, but never deny it,

Know the time to be loud

but also when to be Quiet

Do everything you want to do,

but just be sure

To do it for you.


Run

There’s a wolf running loose in the Meadowlands,

with a murderous slack-jawed grin

God only knows how hard I tried,

but I just couldn’t hold him in…

 

A wolf behind the wheel of a car

is sprinting down Route 3,

The rush of PATH trains through Secaucus

have somehow set him Free

 

He’s listening to Led Zeppelin and T. Rex

with his eyes rolled back in his head,

And I fear If I don’t catch him soon

He’ll wind up shot or dead.


Lessons Learned

if you should see a tree,

then climb that shit promptly!

if you should come across a square,

Always be prepared

To turn it into a rhombus.


ghosts (Backyardia part 2)

Memories keep Haunting me,

and they’re everywhere I look

In the smiling Eyes of photo-graphs,

or pages of a Book.

The Boards or the burbs

and in Manhattan too,

in the crack of ever bat,

or in the Ocean blue.

Nothing’s how it was,

and never will be, I know,

but don’t you just get lonely

For those places we used to go?

When our Neighborhood was immense,

and we’d explore all day,

When Amir just couldn’t jump the fence,

and we had to think of

Something quick to say?

I miss it all,

the backyard dreams,

sun-baked mud

and climbing trees,

grass-stains upon our knees

with no responsibilities,

just summer breeze and Autumn leaves

and July’s at the beach

Where’d it all go, I want to know;

does it still exist?

My brother is a Physicist,

and he tells me time

is relative.

Maybe I can find that happy place

when Portia was still alive,

See Dwight Tooch’s smiling face

as we give each other high-fives.


the Jamaican Angel who was made flesh as a clerk at K-Mart

I came to you with a pair of jeans, windshield-wiper fluid and a baby-helmet.

You looked at me and mumbled,

“Cash or credit,”

The gorgeous black ropes of your hair Hung like vines,

And I wanted to tell you that you that you looked like some Caribbean mermaid-mythology come to life,

A Heavenly creature that sailors would go on adventures and risk their lives Just to find the fabled Isle where you live

But instead I looked down and swiped a debit card

and I left K-Mart.


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