Author Archives: marcofreschi

About marcofreschi

I live in the Ocean and write poetry


can’t you see that all I want to do

is get through to you,

To watch a moonrise

over Manhattan

from the Jersey side,

and hold your hand on the palisades,

be young and be brave,

while we scream from Fort Lee

for the skyline to see

as we wash ourselves clean in the Hudson

my friend (please come home)

My estranged friend,

Wherever have you gone?

I am missing you again,

it seems it’s been so long.

Have you decided

To read Kurt Vonneget books

and study agriculture in the West,

to work on how you look,

And make sure you be your best?

Are you listening to old Bruce Springsteen records

on long walks in the dark,

Or are you listening to hobo stories

Somewhere deep in Central Park?

Are you flying in an air-plane,

to Montenegro or Mozambique,

or are you lost in Atlantic City,

crying desperate tears at the Sea?

Are you running through the Meadowlands,

naked and young, wild and free

Or are you infiltrating corporations,

Dismantling society?

Are you on the run again,

from yourself within your mind?

Are you scared and savagely lonely,

like you were that other time?

I cannot help you now,

The Night’s too dark for me to see

But you’ll find your way somehow,

and it will take you back to me.

Wherever you are,

Looking up at the stars

or Driving Parkway South in your Car,

I wish that You

would find your way back Home,

My dearest friend.


Bridge Over the River Passaic (Marco the Baptist.)

Just yesterday, I was Saved

When an Elbow broke my Nose

and Split my Chin,

And MY Blood Ran like Wine,

Down my face,

Dribbling through a crimson grin

as I cried out in pain

and spit up dark red phlegm.

It’s both sad and amusing,

Funny and confusing,

that so few can find Redemption

in a Deviated Septum,

That so Many see Defeat

In broken buildings and concrete

But I

Have been Baptized

in the waters of the lower Passaic,

Noxious, Toxic Dioxins

poured over my head,

Grabbing hold of


floating like tires

On that spiritual superfund liquid.

God is in the cancerous flesh

of a catfish caught in Kearny,

Hungrily devoured

By a Starving homeless Central American

beneath the bridge,

And with every bite

of that putrid, Cancer meat,

He is Saved.

A Secret for you before I go;

The Bodies of Italians

and murdered little girls

that decorate that muddy river-bottom

Died for Our Sins,

So that We can Live

And So

I Do.

SLAM! (work in progress)

Here’s the Deal:

My Bones are concrete and rebar steel, with copper-wire veins,

and my Telephone-pole legs

Run Electricity Through my Body to my Brain.

There’s street-art spray-painted across my Shoulder blades and scrawled along my Back,

and my hairs a goddam mess of tangled plastic bottles, butts And Bags.

I roar With Engines and diesel-coughing Motors,

Spitting Gears, Ears Bleeding oil from collision-caused Incisions

of scrap-metal fed into the Side of my bonafide Head,

Parking-lot weeds and dandelion seeds growing between

the cracks upon my Asphalt Skin. But

Here’s the thing;

When I turn on my headlight-Eyes and shine High-beams


onto broken Cinder Blocks and dead cops,

Here’s what I find;

The Loping packs of Hyena-Men,

circling you And staring Hungrily at your Ass,

undressing you and Feasting on you with their Eyes

Wide, yipping with just Lust and snapping Jaws,

tearing at your jeans and leggings with Claws,

gaping maws kissing your Cheeks,

covering you with blasts of hot breath and licking paws clean.

Puppies slammed Down Hard on Formica counter-tops,

the force of Impact cracking their little Puppy-teeth,

making them Bleed

before they’re tossed Limp into boiling vats of cloudy water,

World-wide Hunger

Puppy Soup for the Starving unclean Philippines.

Clips sliding neatly Into the Chambers of Guns

(paid for by Hippie pot-loving funds!) and click Clink cha-CHINK

then BAM

painted Brains on a Mexican street!

Woah So gruesome, that’s an ugly way to word it,

Give me another rip of that dank-Ass Shit, another Hit

and let’s sit and watch a funny movie and trip…

I find funny people Holding their Hands over their ears trying not to Hear

the sounds of words like Nigger, the same people who

are walking contradictions, The ones who contribute to gentrification

and the segregation of peoples

but also think that whites and blacks will someday be equals?

I don’t know

The world’s a circus show, just go with the flow

and pick up a Hoop.

Just sometimes

the shit that I see

really starts

to get to me

the Center of the World (and WHAT a center!!)

Homeless and pregnant-

please help…

Oh God

This cardboard sign isn’t a joke

It’s not a scam to get your money

I am going to die,

and so will my child

Please help…

croaked the woman in Manhattan

as 8 million people passed her by.

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.


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.

New Jersey (in just a few words)

Piles of old Highlights magazine sitting between me and a grease monkey,

pill junkie, with the tattoos of names on his arms, I pay him money to fix my car,

and then drive away, never to see him again, Remember When

That woman with no teeth

pulled up to us in that brand-new Jeep,

When we were in the parking lot of 7/11

(she was a tweeker) and told us her husband beat her?

Yeah what the fuck, that was weird!

Did you see me

Throwing trash from the overpass

down onto cars on Bloomfield Ave,

wearing camouflage cargo-pants

with the Rut’s Hut tee-shirt on?

I might as well have a Garden State license plate tattooed on my arm,

just to sound the alarm

and say HELLO!


Rules That Shouldn’t be Broken

1. Always be responsibly irresponsible.

2. Laugh at the joke, because it IS funny.

3. Never cut your hair.

Scream of Consciousness (or Less?)

Oh boy here come the words,

this Boer-War’s got the shot-gun muzzle in my mouth

and I can’t seem to get it out, Apartheids got me tongue-tied

in a tizzy, leafless trees coming down in windstorms of sound

liquid spheres of Tang bang against my head again

Hydrating my skin as it begins to drip along my bones;

Scream to life when the key turns and the clutch presses down,

revolutions of tires cause en-tire Emp-ires to revolution-ize,

grab the still-smoking chamber of the fun-gun and squeeze the trigger at the Sun and make

the Cadillac never look back after the vicious Attack on Fleetwood Mac,

smoking weed because my Parents got a divorce! I just can’t handle it,

there’s no remorse! put that shit out and catch a trout from the cold-ice countertop

of Marco’s life, chop it’s head off, then retreat to Fort Krosnicoff by the Sea

Have the long hair hide your face and never look into your Eyes of your Enemies.


I’m crumbling apart

and I don’t know what to do

So I Drive my car to the Ocean

and dunk my head into the frigid November waters.

I walk up and down empty boardwalks,

reliving ancient history

I eat alone in casino restaurants,

and slowly chew my food.

I drive the Parkway late at night,

listening to rock and roll,

singing along to every word

I look at the skyline of the city

and think about the people who live within it.

I’m crumbling apart

and the world that’s crumbling me

doesn’t seem to notice

How is it even possible to feel this alone

when you’re living here at the center of it all?

Hey Marco;

Nobody cares!

we’ve got our own problems.

What Can I Get For You Today

Symphonies of Sighs as time slides by, and

I Push another knife into another lobster eye,

take another lobster-life While I Try to figure out why in the world am I

Doing what I’m doing.

I’ll decapitate a fish With the quick flip of the wrist

and the flash of a blade,

throw fistfuls of shrimp corpses into an open plastic-bag grave,

But what am I doing REALLY?

My world is a polished steel counter-top,

And a cold macabre menagerie

of dead animals and creatures of the Sea

Some times it just seems like utter absurdity,

The construct that we see and make be,

Packaged nature becomes a commodity,

‘I want a Slice of Salmon that’s thick all the way across.’

Sorry mam…that’s not the way that those animals are shaped.

What you’re asking for does not exist.

Your meal will not cook evenly. Your unreasonable demands

Cannot be met, we haven’t found a way to so alter fish yet

but I’m sure if you can wait just a few more years

I’ll be able to sell you nice, even, rectangles and hexahedrons of flesh.

Honestly, the rails are calling me to the West,

and soon I’ll answer their song

Because There are no Saints here, no San Francisco,

so I try to find my own

but sometimes even that

gets hard.

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!

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,


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.

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.

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!

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