Monthly Archives: October 2014

Los Angeles (the City of Angels)

City of Angels, City of God

take me in and save me

From the Horrors of the East;

I know that things are different somewhere,

because they just have to be.

There’s a Man with a coffin chest

and Holocaust-oven Eyes who follows me

He’s walking through the Desert night

and He’s steadily closing in;

California please, I implore,

Has the Western Coast got room for one more?

I know Big Sur will save me

from the Jersey shore.

 


the Gun Rule

there is an exception to all the rules of the world,

And I call it the Gun Rule;

All rules are changed

when a gun is pressed against your forehead


Requiem for the Suburbanite Knights of Union County

Another day begins in the asphalt sprawl As the leaves turn brown, dry, die and fall

and urbanite saints sweat in old paint-stained overalls

covering cinder-block walls with honey-dew hues and cleaning out pissed-on bathroom stalls;

More Trailer park homes and Willowbrook Malls, Uncles ashamed to answer telephone calls.

Another dawn of teenage tragedies that go on behind closed doors,

More of the same rat-trap allure for the television-drunk media whores,

the advertisement junkies, who get high on polished J crew clothing,

and sales expanded from self-loathing, artificial desire to stay cool, stay Hip,

More of the same Lisa Fitz heartaches and Community College blues,

alcoholic mothers, fathers, brothers, lovers who abuse booze and lose

touch, without a care for the fistfuls of hair in the bathroom sink, torn out

in grief and rage because dad couldn’t think of somebody other than himself;

More long-distance calls That you make to Iraq, crying and waiting for him to call back

and low moans on the telephone, when he tells you he’ll be coming home soon

Another dream committed suicide today, jumped from the Verrazano-Narrows

Would rather slam it’s Head into the New York Bay than say Hey, May I take your order for one more fucking day,

East-side mind glide by find peace in the sprawl, make sense of  it all,

Pick up the glove and play ball,

and if you don’t,

Then there’s the door;

just give our regards to whoevers out there


little blanket-bug!

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!


To the Powers that Be: (Changing World.)

My brain is tapioca,

Resting in a bowl of pudding skull,

And I’m ready to scoop it out and dump it

into the Kill Van Kull.

Things are changing, and the Wheel is turning,

and it just won’t be the same;

The Caliphate’s returning

to the East spreading and like a Flame,

and the Capitalist Octopus to the West,

That’s Rotting Marco’s brain.

This uneasy peace is falling to sleep

and the pieces have all been set;

the board is perilously laid,

Just waiting to make the Check.

And as the Powers that be stood quietly

with fingers meshed and held their breath,

the next Oppenheimer, Destroyer of Worlds was born,

And he’s ready to answer

the blast of the horn.


Wisdom (chew on this)

The joke’s on them,

because I knew all along that meter only accepts quarters;

I just wanted to get rid of all those pesky nickels!


get back down.

put aside

the thoughts of suicide

so you can let another

dreadful day go by.

sit inside

and wallow in your

lost pride

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.


Il Dado e Tratto

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,

Ambition

will extinguish

the brightest flame

And as legions cross the Rubicon

the Senate are solemnly

sharpened blades.

For The Pharaohs of the Nile

and all the riches of military splendor…

Et tu, Brute? Then Fall, Caesar.


Out of the North

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.


a penny for your thoughts?

How do sense and cents sound the same.

It doesn’t make any sense.


Ser Marco of Hackensack

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.

 

but sometimes,

I think that I’m the monster,

and that knights

just can’t exist here.


Close Eyes To Exit

Close your eyes to exit

This fucked up world.

Put on some music

To drown out the

Thoughts in your head.

Watch a movie

let the pixels dance

and forget about the world

for a little while


Driving To Penn Station

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

in Viet-nam,

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.


the Tragedy on Route 23

the rain drums down on the window at 11:00 on Wednesday night, and I Stop in to the diner after a long day for a bite; I gloomily pick at french fries, and use them to scoop cole slaw And I can’t help but Overhearing the 30 year old busboy talk excitedly to the old sour-faced waitress- It’s just how Jay-Z got started! I just have to keep making beats, and sell a couple to get the money to get out of here, then I’m set! This shit is going to blow up, know sayin? No more wiping no fucking tables! My Dad told me I’m getting real good. Karen leans in with my check and smiles wryly and says with enough melancholy to break my heart- Some people are superstars in their own mind. I look at the check for 7.22. I leave her a 5 dollar tip for her wisdom. I walk out into the rain and shed a tear where it is quickly washed away and lost.


missed the boat

the world was in my grasp

and I turned my face away,

because I  guess that’s who I am.

I guess i’d rather just watch railroad tracks,

Watch the trains rolling out

To California or El Paso,

Tacoma or Ontario,

or other places I’ll never go.

I let the door shut

on that perfect person

and for What?

Garbage and Broken families,

shadows of marshland memories,

Cold Tupperwares of tortellinis.

I guess i should have tried,

but it may be

that loving another

just isn’t for me.


spook lights got me lost in skeleton swamp

it’s 2 am again, and Marco’s softly following a will-O’-the-wisp into the murky depths of the bog, stumbling over logs in the fog, trying to reach the light in the night before the glowing Red eyes of the Beast close in for the feast.


Cry of the Salmon Woman of the Red Earth People

hey first people,

how is the reservation life treating you?

stop another freight train in Canada,

got a job serving drinks

at Red Wind casino?

more teen suicides

as you cry and watch your

culture die

But hey,

keep on giving it a try,

and maybe by 2045

you’ll get

those treaty rights restored!


Some Thoughts from Today

Bob’s son is dead, his world ended a few days ago,

But he was at work today.

He looked at me and said How are you Marco,

and I didn’t really have a reply, Because

The unliving Eyes of striped bass

and rainbow trout

bore holes in the back of my head.

It stank like fish blood.

I wonder what is happening in Trinidad right now,

it’s a weird thing to wonder about

Because as far as my concern goes,

Everyone there

Doesn’t even exist.

To me, wage slaves in Thailand or China

are just a great bargain at K-Mart.

But what am I to those slaves,

who put the stitches in my clothing?

Do they think absently about Paterson,

and ponder How was Marco’s day?

Because their’s

was hen bu Hao!

The world is a psychopath,

so watch where you put those fingers and toes

And Don’t trust anyone

you wouldn’t piss in front of.


Warning (seriously)

Don’t stare too long into the eyes of a dead fish.

they start staring back,

And you won’t like what you see


Cheer up, Marco

the world is beating me up

and i’ve had enough 😦


John Faa of Dunbar (nomad song-Westward Ho)

Meet the nomads of America,

the misfits of our race

the ones who ride on rails in boxcars

Carrying Lives

from place to place.

Meet the ones

Who stick out thumbs,

Gypsies of the high plains

and Roma tribes of Oregon.

The state fair circus folk

with peculiar tattooed faces,

Staring through the sunburnt haze

into the depths

of outer space.

The carny girls

who pass through town

and band van drifters

who just don’t

stick around…

it’s something that we

have never had,

but i guess that’s all it really is;

just a different type of being sad,

the hunted vagabond kid.

the loneliness of the road,

the freedom of the wanderer,

the empty absence of a home-

but at times i think,

Fuck it let’s go,

Pack my shit

and

Westward Ho.


For all the Deli Girls in the Struggle (brighter days will come.)

Oh, She’s a Deli girl

Slicing up that ham so very thin..

Ooooo, she’s a Deli girl!

Giving out Free samples

To the kids

Oh, She’s a Deli girl..

Wears a new pair of gloves with

every

Handling!

Oooooooo, she’s a Deli Girl!

Cole-slaw and pickles with all the

Sandwiches,

Deli giiiiirl!

Grab the cold cut slicer

And you

do your thing,

Ohh, and she’s a Deli girl

The Deli’s not the place

to raise your kids.

Oooooooooooo,

and you better take a number,

cause I think it’s gonna be a long, long line,

Yes I think it’s gonna be a

Long, Long line…


Nocturne of a College Student (the America I love)

It’s nights like these

when I sit in Applebees

and stare mindlessly

at 20 different television screens,

watch young girls humiliate themselves

and men punch each other in the face,

And I have advertisements

and meaningless messages

poured into my head,

over and over and over again…

on nights like this

I look around as I sit, and

I just get tired of all this shit,

the ceaseless glow and the white noise,

the pleasure activated by sugary foods

and bouncing images

of cheerleader boobs,

the iphone molesting douchebag

with the backwards flat-brimmed

Penn-State hat,

The waiter who could be so much more,

the teenaged girls who think they want

to act like whores,

The bittersweet New Jersey of our dreams.

It’s nights like these I think

I just want to quit

America is rotting my brain,

and throwing potential

down the drain


change.

somehow i guess I just expect

that it’s going to happen,

that i don’t have to do anything at all

Just another year in the life,

thinking that if i want to walk

then first i’ve got to crawl

i want to believe that it’s true,

that it’s something anyone

at all can do,

but when i look in the mirror and sigh,

because i’m still the same me,

no matter how hard i try,

and i make the same dumb mistakes

and the same shitty calls,

same turnpike rest stop bathroom stalls,

i wonder if it’s possible

or if all those stories of change are hoaxes,

all those reformed men and women

are bogus,

and their act imposes

a false reality to the rest of us.

am i stubborn,

or am i simply because i am?

These are questions not for me,

that i’m sure can be solved

by Euclidean geometry,

but for now let’s try and see

if the adaptive imagination

of the human psyche,

with all it’s infinite potential,

can change

my apparently zodiac destiny,

and break me free from these

pleasantly self-destructive

tendencies.


Costco-Card Catastrophe (Just LOOK at these deals!!!)

O, Costco! God of Consumption

and Zenith of our American Empire of Greed;

The Expiration dates printed upon your Organic Milk cartons

Are testament to thousands of years of human design and efficiency.

How we marvel at your Unbeatable prices of fish and meat,

at Every fruit that grows under the Sun

Neatly packed and labeled;

Through us, your Disciples,

Ye have defeated cruel and cunning Nature

and whipped it to groveling submission.

The Immortal deities of our time

Walking the Earth in 6,000 dollar suits,

Their legacies recorded on the papyrus scrolls of tax records

and Forbes magazine archives,

Commanding their worshipers from Long Island palaces

or Mount Olympus penthouse temples uptown.

Here the Sun sets on the Age of Nations,

And Dawn begins

on the First Days of Creation

For the Eon of Corporations,

The new Superpowers of the Globe;

in Mankind’s short time, we’ve seen

Clans then Kings then Presidents,

Now the chief executive officers reign,

And we Bow down as low as we can sink

Before billboards of air-brushed tits.

O, Costco! Soon shall come a day

When Saint Peter welcomes me in

through your pearly automatically sliding Gates

With His name-tag on his shoulder,

He will Sing with the voices of Angels and Archangels,

Do you have your card?


Natural Born Killers

Is it the wolf’s fault

That he kills and eats the flesh

Of the weaker being?

Of coarse not, very few would argue so;

Is it the Man’s fault

That he is driven by greed

to do monstrous things,

To Himself and to the World?

Pretty, quiet, civilized people

Are too Afraid to see

That We, Also,

Are natural

born

killers.


Wake Up-Time to Die

When Days of End come at last,

when the American hegemony falls,

and the last demagogue

of the West

Surrenders the urban sprawl,

The Sun will Set

at the end of an Age,

And Once again the World will wonder;

There was a Caesar-

When Shall come such Another?


Full Moon Blues (late nights)

It’s gettin late

in the Garden State

but I can’t sleep tonight.

 

Trains and planes over Newark skies,

Rhymes and words

just can’t describe

 

This concrete heartbeat

and this cold city street

Are sadly

sadly

 

Calling me


Actuality Rhapsody

This is a poem for the brutality

and consequent misconstrued reality

(alarming congeniality)

of the misguided illusion of normality

and magazine mentality

of overt sexuality

And the Glamour Girl fetish of our gilded Age;

All the women who believe they are expected

to live their lives 20 pounds underweight,

all the men who want the perfect bod,

Big muscles and Hot dates;

The machoman and groupie skanks

who inadvertently shape our fates;

When the ingrained and institutionalized

American facade of freedom

Has you acting helpless and dependent

We’re just a little bit East of Eden…

And fourth grade girls

who want nice racks

and are conscious of their calories

And loathe the body they’ve been given;

Here’s one way to put it in words,

It’s sure a circus show we live in.


It’s A Hard World

To the old men who play bocci

And remember in the park,

To the young girls who play records

and dance alone in the dark,

To the chess playing gentlemen

of South Carolina Ave,

To the waitresses with children,

whose tips are all they have

From the corners to the porches

and the bus-stop tragedies,

From the empty dinner tables

and the ruined Christmas eves,

From the Hamptons and the gutters

of Miami Beach

From the poor Latino mothers

and every broken dream,

There’s a billion different stories,

but we’re each the protagonist of one

and through griefs and through glories,

It’s always just begun.

It’s important to live a happy life

and love as often as you can,

but it’s a hardass world we live in

that Nobody understands.


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