So much depends
the off white
with their yellow
and life giving
when I wake up in the morning and I’m all comfy in my bed,
I fell like a lil blanket-bug, and I burrow in my head!
the thoughts of suicide
so you can let another
dreadful day go by.
and wallow in your
and feeble attempts
to get past your bedside.
drag out the door.
can’t do this no more.
big bad max provides relief,
albeit it brief.
best bros make it better
but not for long.
you know where you belong.
the Ides of March are upon us
and the Caesar’s days are numbered;
though the conquest of Gall
brought wealth and fame
and All the world
Shall remember the name,
the brightest flame
And as legions cross the Rubicon
the Senate are solemnly
For The Pharaohs of the Nile
and all the riches of military splendor…
Et tu, Brute? Then Fall, Caesar.
out of the North I gallop towards home,
rubber hooves of my Civic pounding the Palisades Parkway
Pump pump on the gas, to Switch lanes and pass,
Raggaeton on, November air pouring over the sleek bodied machine
trees and signs fly by, Hudson River Valley disappears behind,
swallowed up by the blackness my high beams couldn’t find,
ink-black waters of the river flow churn slow,
Garden State plates traveling in a bounding pack down the track
like hounds for the races, skyline light replaces stars turn to
street lights frantically spilling by night’s asphalt blood
Out of the North and away from the dreams,
reentry to reality urban chugging turning gangland mugging
gasoline igniting cigarette loving and exits for the Holland Tunnel,
Shout out to Elizabeth, Union and Brooklyn the radio Jamaician MC sings
While I’m barreling to Heaven on four-cylinder wings,
the Pulaski Skyway sets us free
Ripping our Skeletons Out of the North
and Smashing them gently
into the Sea.
sometimes in my mind,
I’m a prince or a knight,
standing up for what is Good and Right
in a world of evil-doers and warlocks.
I think that I’m the monster,
and that knights
just can’t exist here.
The Homeless people at the off ramp to Newark
who try to clean my car windshield
with dirty newspaper
probably have a lot to say,
About where it all went wrong
How they left their humanity
in a burning Saigon
They’d say Ho-Chi Min was a son of a bitch
but even he’d
be better than this.
They’d say how afterwards drugs just felt right,
It was the 70’s,
and everyone was high.
Gerald Ford had plans to help,
everything would turn out fine.
The memories of private friends,
with murderous grins
And the screaming women
who wouldn’t give in
Hide from them
in every crack in the sidewalk,
Every face with slanted eyes
hides the taste
of Agent Orange.
Now I’m rolling up my windows
and locking all the doors
Saying boy What a dump
as I press the gas
and try to speed up
And get to Penn Station time.