NEWS POEMS
Headlines—May 8, 2001
A man stabbed at Sunset Motel,
Branchburg, Route 33,
over a woman.
Four juveniles set a homeless woman on fire.
Her life is saved by the six layers of clothing she wore.
The flames burned through four.
A drowning in the frigid center of Deal Lake,
Asbury Park, a canoe capsizes.
Begrudged employees strike.
McVeigh wants a stay, to delay trial.
Mr. Viola from Bogota offers $5,000 reward for his wife.
She left through the back door on Valentine’s Day.
An orthopedic surgeon sexually assaults girls.
Studies show the heart repairs itself.
Headlines—Summer 2001
Shark week on Discovery Channel after sharks swallow
five; one rips off legs of a man honeymooning in Bahamas.
A bunch of Becton students switch a Discovery
video for porn, stump the substitute teacher,
with scenes of topless lesbians
on Holocaust Remembrance Day.
Swastika marked playgrounds,
school budgets voted down.
Students in Germany gone Columbine.
The dis-stink-uishing stink of the NJ Turnpike,
dead fish of Saddle Brook Park pond, Hackensack River,
after 100 degree days, no rain, a heat wave.
And I dig up Berry’s Creek buried tales.
Seniors blow their SSI in AC,
Octoberfest, games of UNO, Bingo
ith Vic Hoofers and drunk Legionnaires.
Gene therapy for hemopheliacs shows promise.
Pets Seeking Homes
Adopt Smash,
a domestic shorthair, good with
other cats, dogs.
Headlines—April 2002
Rats coming out of the river,
one as big as a dog,
near empty truck lots.
They carry typhus, plague,
they’re bold but won’t attack.
A murdered coed strangled for love and
passion of a football scholarship sacrificed.
All for her.
A rebel anti-smoking campaign,
re-done intersections,
a free-for-all of right of ways.
A guy named Firestone
belts a cop in the stomach
with a tire iron.
A 31-year old Hackensack man grazed
in the head by a freight train
survives; fell asleep after a few beers.
Kids with seizure disorders, a head
marked up like train tracks from surgeries.
and Trantino is free
The FBI wants you.
Uncle Sam wants micro-managers to run the world.
Help Wanted
Accounting, administrative assistant, auto sales, carpenter, cashier, cabinet maker, bookkeeper, banker, bartender, butcher, biller, carpenter, clerk, child care, concierge, collections, counselor, customer service, computer sales, CRT, data entry, driver, EMT, electrician, environmental worker, engineer, food service, factory help, gas station attendent, general office help, graphics, hairstylist health care, hotels, housekeeper, home inspector, Human resources, insurance, janitor, kite flyer, legal secretary, landscaper, lab technician, machinist, maintenance worker, mechanic, mail room, manicurist, marketing, mechanic, model, medical transcriptionist, nurse, optometrist, photographer, porter, restaurant help, salesman, surveryor, teacher, veterinarian, roofer, retail,
Ads
Classic ’69 Caddy
Affordable cleaning
Toy trains wanted
Free cell phones
Unique business opportunities
Hair transplants and removal
Cellulite control
Tax free tobacco
Private dancers
Asians, redheads, blondes, brunettes
Obituaries
Vietnam War vets
Leave behind wives, dead girlfriends,
Cars, memberships,
Birthplace, life, death
Police Blotter
Tenant-landlord disputes, parking spaces,
Neighbors fights over picket fences,
one aims high, shoots his own home.
TROs, MO’s and RORs
flim-flams, backyard robberies.
Kids leave their weed on the dash in the Meadows.
Snagged.
Hotel thefts, purse snatches, lost cell phones, CC’s.
Criminal sexual contact, and all he wanted was a
bear hug, front and back. A pervert named Geddis
wants to play scrunch-scrunch, double whammy,
watch little boys go potty
in a school bathroom stall.
A heat wave triggers a candelight book reading, fire.
A 2 year-old dies on her birthday after a dryer fire.
A kid drowns in the Hudson River,
retrieving an unlaced, expensive sneaker
that all the kids covet.
It slipped off.
False alarms, road kills.
A guy steals ten rolls of film.
A go-go-bar owner shoots himself in the foot,
struggling with a robber.
Headlines—Sept. 16, 2003
Seventeen hurt in a bus crash
Bush won’t back off on Saddam
Thousands hunt for kidnapped missionaries
In Colombia.
Hans Blix attacks Iraq’s weapons spin.
Hurricane Isabel’s winds come ashore.
Headlines—Fall 2003
Blackout blankets northeast U.S.
D.C. sniper goes on trial.
Monday, March 26, 2018
Used truck blues
Used Truck Blues
Every few months this 2003 Jeep Liberty gives me grief.
I’ve got used truck blues and can’t get any relief.
She’s got over 290,000 miles on the body.
But lots of new parts, a warhorse on the highway.
Last week her fan kept stalling, I overheated.
Billowing smoke, she’s choking but won’t be defeated.
Then the battery light flashes, the radio won’t go on.
Got a new alternator, $300 later and I’m gone.
Got a new starter, radiator cap, and water pump.
How much more dough should I put in her before she gets dumped?
She’s firing on all cylinders, I’ve replaced five engine coils.
She’s got good brakes, transmission, exhaust,
and I even use synthetic oils.
This bitch is sometimes thirsty.
I’ve gotta pour in a quart.
Every couple of weeks when I’m a little short.
Twist off the cap, give it some muscle.
All that gouk caked on makes it a struggle.
But the CD player, sound system still sounds smokin’
Blarin’ Nirvana, Sabbath, Stones while I’m motorin’.
My mechanic says get another model Jeep.
I won’t get attached to her, I never play for keeps.
I may get hooked up with a $1500 Cherokee.
Hey, at least that truck has A/C and heat.
I keep Jeep Liberty clean, but the rust I can’t hide.
Yet overall, she’s a reliable ride.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Microfiction: Motorcycle Boys
The sign outside is plain, in red letters against white. “Evan’s Place.” No lights in the square window, can’t even see inside. You have to open the door and walk in where everything is all right as long as you’re drinking steadily and when it starts to wear off you have a little more. Maker’s Mark, Absolute and cranberry juice, tequila, whatever. Keep them coming and keep me numb so I don’t have to think about my dead heart. And it’s always dark inside, always dark, with just a few lights. This is Evan’s Place.
I don’t know how those guys that come in here keep riding. It’s a stunner, makes you stop and think when you see them, hear their stories, see their battle scars. I walked in with David, a sexy date who happens to ride as well.
Gideon sits on a stool in the corner, wears a warm flannel, sips his drinks here every night, contemplates whether to go or stay. He walks to the doorway, looks up and over the railroad tracks, steps off the curb, lights a cigarette and disappears.
Mark and Kathy are married but they’re not exactly all over each other. She plays pool with a few guys, kicks their asses while they check out her ass. One even smacks it. But she handles them well, puts them in their places. Nobody messes with Kathy and she smiles at me.
“Hi, I remember you from the last date you had with my old acquaintance, my good friend. Break his heart and your name is mud,” she probably thinks.
But I have not a heart to give, or to break, to take, for it’s dead. And if things were to work out with this one, I’d somehow find a way to screw it up—unintentionally of course.
But this doesn’t matter now, because Kathy is like sunshine in the dark in here. Her lips are lined way beyond the lip line in thick, baby pink and filled in with the same hue, contrasting sharply with her deep tan. Only a fool believes money buys a tan. Everyone knows sunshine is free, but we go on in the darkness.
Kathy shakes her bleached blonde hair, spilling over an aqua tank top that hugs her ample curves. The fine lines around her mouth don’t matter. She lights another cigarette.
I ask David to get me another drink, and he seems surprised. I haven ‘t even gone to the restroom yet. He went twice already. Perhaps I have a strong bladder, but ah, better if I had a backbone or a heart, or better yet, grew some balls.
Kathy gets up to leave. She doesn’t want to hear about the fat redhead’s problems as she sits at the bar, ranting and raving, decked in black clothes that don’t fit, tits hanging over the bar. Kathy’s arms are flailing around her head, covering her hears, cigarette clasped between her fingertips. No more no more.
Mark solemnly talks to David all night about motorcycles and things. He used to hang out in the Pennsylvania go-go bars years ago, met a few cutie country bumpkins up there and they took him for a night of partying, two or three of them. And why wouldn’t they want him with those sweet slate blue eyes, plain good country boy looks, straight, long brown hair and a look like he wants to get to know you better, sweetie pie. Like he wants to be your friend. He remembers his trysts with a smile, eyes shining.
But that’s all over now, he reminds us. That was before Kathy. Now oysters and zinc make him horny, he tells David. Too bad David is not getting any tonight. Timing sucks and only women bleed, as Alice Cooper would say.
Mark and David talk about chrome, motorcycles they’ve had, crashed, painted bought and sold. I understand none of it. Two hot bikes sit outside, gleaming in the darkness, and Softtails in $30,000 worth of metallic fuschia sparkling.
They belong to two people—sitting and staring at us from the corner. Rob took a step back when we initially walked in, assessing us, or me rather—an unfamiliar face, perhaps a pretty one, to him. He and his pal drink and finally come over to say hello.
Rob’s hair is thick, black layers chopped randomly up to the shoulder, red bandana around his neck, sunglasses atop his head. His eyes are blue and so is the light around his silhouette. His pal is limping, decked in a pair of chaps over his jeans, and I’m in pain just looking at him. But I read no pain in his face. Rob is sexy.
The motorcycle boys start talking about accidents. Rob lifts his jeans, my mouth drops open at the sight of his prosthetic legs from the knees down. All I can say is wow.
“Let’s go outside and watch them take off on those hot bikes,” David says.
It’s cold and I left my leather jacket in his van, but it’s okay, the cold is exhilarating.
“You like motorcylces?” Rob asks me.
I inch closer, watching them warm up the bikes. He smiles.
I could tell he would have taken me for a ride, but would never ask, being polite to my date. I was already on the ride of my life, never turning back. The kick from the exhaust flirts with my deepest fears and I suddenly jump back. They ride on, take off in a huff. Ride on bad boys, go with the American flirt, while that shot, it burns, it burns in my chest in Johnny Walker Blue, makes me numb, keeps me alive, heart or no heart, and time just stands still tonight.
Can it stand still like the one slow tender kiss before we parted? A kiss is more intimate than sex. A kiss implies more, takes you just to the edge before you take it over the cliff. Then it’s gone.
I don’t know how those guys that come in here keep riding. It’s a stunner, makes you stop and think when you see them, hear their stories, see their battle scars. I walked in with David, a sexy date who happens to ride as well.
Gideon sits on a stool in the corner, wears a warm flannel, sips his drinks here every night, contemplates whether to go or stay. He walks to the doorway, looks up and over the railroad tracks, steps off the curb, lights a cigarette and disappears.
Mark and Kathy are married but they’re not exactly all over each other. She plays pool with a few guys, kicks their asses while they check out her ass. One even smacks it. But she handles them well, puts them in their places. Nobody messes with Kathy and she smiles at me.
“Hi, I remember you from the last date you had with my old acquaintance, my good friend. Break his heart and your name is mud,” she probably thinks.
But I have not a heart to give, or to break, to take, for it’s dead. And if things were to work out with this one, I’d somehow find a way to screw it up—unintentionally of course.
But this doesn’t matter now, because Kathy is like sunshine in the dark in here. Her lips are lined way beyond the lip line in thick, baby pink and filled in with the same hue, contrasting sharply with her deep tan. Only a fool believes money buys a tan. Everyone knows sunshine is free, but we go on in the darkness.
Kathy shakes her bleached blonde hair, spilling over an aqua tank top that hugs her ample curves. The fine lines around her mouth don’t matter. She lights another cigarette.
I ask David to get me another drink, and he seems surprised. I haven ‘t even gone to the restroom yet. He went twice already. Perhaps I have a strong bladder, but ah, better if I had a backbone or a heart, or better yet, grew some balls.
Kathy gets up to leave. She doesn’t want to hear about the fat redhead’s problems as she sits at the bar, ranting and raving, decked in black clothes that don’t fit, tits hanging over the bar. Kathy’s arms are flailing around her head, covering her hears, cigarette clasped between her fingertips. No more no more.
Mark solemnly talks to David all night about motorcycles and things. He used to hang out in the Pennsylvania go-go bars years ago, met a few cutie country bumpkins up there and they took him for a night of partying, two or three of them. And why wouldn’t they want him with those sweet slate blue eyes, plain good country boy looks, straight, long brown hair and a look like he wants to get to know you better, sweetie pie. Like he wants to be your friend. He remembers his trysts with a smile, eyes shining.
But that’s all over now, he reminds us. That was before Kathy. Now oysters and zinc make him horny, he tells David. Too bad David is not getting any tonight. Timing sucks and only women bleed, as Alice Cooper would say.
Mark and David talk about chrome, motorcycles they’ve had, crashed, painted bought and sold. I understand none of it. Two hot bikes sit outside, gleaming in the darkness, and Softtails in $30,000 worth of metallic fuschia sparkling.
They belong to two people—sitting and staring at us from the corner. Rob took a step back when we initially walked in, assessing us, or me rather—an unfamiliar face, perhaps a pretty one, to him. He and his pal drink and finally come over to say hello.
Rob’s hair is thick, black layers chopped randomly up to the shoulder, red bandana around his neck, sunglasses atop his head. His eyes are blue and so is the light around his silhouette. His pal is limping, decked in a pair of chaps over his jeans, and I’m in pain just looking at him. But I read no pain in his face. Rob is sexy.
The motorcycle boys start talking about accidents. Rob lifts his jeans, my mouth drops open at the sight of his prosthetic legs from the knees down. All I can say is wow.
“Let’s go outside and watch them take off on those hot bikes,” David says.
It’s cold and I left my leather jacket in his van, but it’s okay, the cold is exhilarating.
“You like motorcylces?” Rob asks me.
I inch closer, watching them warm up the bikes. He smiles.
I could tell he would have taken me for a ride, but would never ask, being polite to my date. I was already on the ride of my life, never turning back. The kick from the exhaust flirts with my deepest fears and I suddenly jump back. They ride on, take off in a huff. Ride on bad boys, go with the American flirt, while that shot, it burns, it burns in my chest in Johnny Walker Blue, makes me numb, keeps me alive, heart or no heart, and time just stands still tonight.
Can it stand still like the one slow tender kiss before we parted? A kiss is more intimate than sex. A kiss implies more, takes you just to the edge before you take it over the cliff. Then it’s gone.
Microfiction: Beth's Vanity
Beth’s vanity is elegantly strewn with candles, figurines, jewelry, perfume and hair accessories upon antique mahogany. A star-shaped candle never burns, topped with amethyst and turquoise in the rough, and iridescent Velcro dots and stars for glamour hair, sprayed with silicone shine, amber mascara wand highlights. Other candles burn when day becomes night, doors and shades close and she roves. A pewter open weave curves, cupping vanillaroma. A stained glass pansy-shaped holder—just like we drew it as kids—five half circles and a large dot in the middle—where the tea light sits, and a ceramic daisy lie nearby.
The somber silver lion guards a jewelry dish. The contents: a silver chain for which no pendant fits—the clasp is too weak or small. A mother’s antique ring in white gold filigree, a diamond chip, and a band worn dangerously thin. Beth couldn’t wait, kept asking when she’d get to wear it, have it. And it’s all she’ll ever wear. He delicately twisted that ring around her finger, nervously toying with it when they parted. Then there’s the large barbell tongue ring—never got a chance to buy a shorter one after the inflammation of the tongue and the last relationship subsided. Any tiny gold hoop earrings and studs—very first ones—still had them. Funny how a father takes his girl to tear holes in her ears.
Aromatics in Dream, Coco, CK-Be, Safari, Opium, Chanel No. 5 and jasmine, lavender, gingerlily, and juniper essential oils line the left shelf. The hyacinth bottle is empty, but she can’t toss it yet. Not yet.
Scattered daisies, roses dried, shrunk, crack to powder and dust nestled around leopard print, blue velvet and emerald trinket boxes bearing pendants in amber, gold, marquisette crosses, precious stones, liquid silver, a cameo. Two good watches have run out of time. A pearl-studded shoe takes a stance, near a pair of rhinestone bobby pins. A pill box pops open with the slightest squeeze. A jade necklace—an aunt’s gift—succeeded the pearl bracelet she lost after Sweet 16.
Makeup transforms and change is temporary, transient. Remnants of glitter eye shadow and its slow fall remain. She lost it all for one night in smoky lids of gunmetal grey, silver and blue hues while lip plump primer accentuated her views. Her lips taste varied moods—nectar, berry, sugar plum, desire, slayer, clovebud—mushing together like pillows in velvet, cream, matte and glossy and shimmery finishes. Rose water blush revives a young girl flush. Potions of line erasers, pore reducers, toners, enhancers and removers swipe away black mascara traces, hide flaws, years.
In the center, an angel figurine, a dryad in mauve robes, head down, gazes upon a tablet, feather pen in hand, scrawling.
Beth displays a brass art-deco lamp, throwing faint light, an Aladdin’s lamp for a few doubtful wishes, and an owl for wisdom—next to a blue, heart-shaped glass paperweight, holding her endless lists down, constantly rewritten, crossed out.
Beth’s vanity needs dusting.
The somber silver lion guards a jewelry dish. The contents: a silver chain for which no pendant fits—the clasp is too weak or small. A mother’s antique ring in white gold filigree, a diamond chip, and a band worn dangerously thin. Beth couldn’t wait, kept asking when she’d get to wear it, have it. And it’s all she’ll ever wear. He delicately twisted that ring around her finger, nervously toying with it when they parted. Then there’s the large barbell tongue ring—never got a chance to buy a shorter one after the inflammation of the tongue and the last relationship subsided. Any tiny gold hoop earrings and studs—very first ones—still had them. Funny how a father takes his girl to tear holes in her ears.
Aromatics in Dream, Coco, CK-Be, Safari, Opium, Chanel No. 5 and jasmine, lavender, gingerlily, and juniper essential oils line the left shelf. The hyacinth bottle is empty, but she can’t toss it yet. Not yet.
Scattered daisies, roses dried, shrunk, crack to powder and dust nestled around leopard print, blue velvet and emerald trinket boxes bearing pendants in amber, gold, marquisette crosses, precious stones, liquid silver, a cameo. Two good watches have run out of time. A pearl-studded shoe takes a stance, near a pair of rhinestone bobby pins. A pill box pops open with the slightest squeeze. A jade necklace—an aunt’s gift—succeeded the pearl bracelet she lost after Sweet 16.
Makeup transforms and change is temporary, transient. Remnants of glitter eye shadow and its slow fall remain. She lost it all for one night in smoky lids of gunmetal grey, silver and blue hues while lip plump primer accentuated her views. Her lips taste varied moods—nectar, berry, sugar plum, desire, slayer, clovebud—mushing together like pillows in velvet, cream, matte and glossy and shimmery finishes. Rose water blush revives a young girl flush. Potions of line erasers, pore reducers, toners, enhancers and removers swipe away black mascara traces, hide flaws, years.
In the center, an angel figurine, a dryad in mauve robes, head down, gazes upon a tablet, feather pen in hand, scrawling.
Beth displays a brass art-deco lamp, throwing faint light, an Aladdin’s lamp for a few doubtful wishes, and an owl for wisdom—next to a blue, heart-shaped glass paperweight, holding her endless lists down, constantly rewritten, crossed out.
Beth’s vanity needs dusting.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Vacant Addresses - 38 Jackson Street
Two blocks down, right at Jackson and Hope
Asian lady says, I’m only half a mile
away yet I drive past it each time
I go around.
Kids shoot hoops in the street near
Roosevelt School #10, Passaic Industrial section
Beth Israel Hospital
double-deck two family homes, porches
amidst glass-strewn streets
on which girls walk barefoot
and play double dutch.
House for sale by owner.
No number listed.
No trespassing.
Warning: pitbull inside.
I’m home.
Asian lady says, I’m only half a mile
away yet I drive past it each time
I go around.
Kids shoot hoops in the street near
Roosevelt School #10, Passaic Industrial section
Beth Israel Hospital
double-deck two family homes, porches
amidst glass-strewn streets
on which girls walk barefoot
and play double dutch.
House for sale by owner.
No number listed.
No trespassing.
Warning: pitbull inside.
I’m home.
The Race
Dad sits at the kitchen table
Bifocals pushed down his long, thin nose
And glances occasionally at the 6 p.m. news
As the short blue pencil guided by his hand carefully
Checks off the Tuesday night picks
The lines in his forehead deepen with concentration
Number 5 in the 3rd..
Or maybe Star Gazer or Shadow Dancer
“Gimme two numbers,” he says smiling knowingly
at the odd that I pick a winner.
I give him the first two that enter my mind
As if picking the odds to life,
Hoping not to disappoint him.
He smiles approvingly.
“Good luck,” I say as he
races through the front door.
Bifocals pushed down his long, thin nose
And glances occasionally at the 6 p.m. news
As the short blue pencil guided by his hand carefully
Checks off the Tuesday night picks
The lines in his forehead deepen with concentration
Number 5 in the 3rd..
Or maybe Star Gazer or Shadow Dancer
“Gimme two numbers,” he says smiling knowingly
at the odd that I pick a winner.
I give him the first two that enter my mind
As if picking the odds to life,
Hoping not to disappoint him.
He smiles approvingly.
“Good luck,” I say as he
races through the front door.
Gasp (1990s)
Gasp
Out of the depths of Dickson Hall, we hang,
swaggering near trails of cigarette butts
tossed aside the Humanities building. The stench
of lunch truck fries, grilled meat creeps into my stomach,
an empty pit. My mind digesting meals of stark Realism,
creative writing juices, rebellious Romanticism.
Mike yells, “Whaddaya need, cuz?”
A shivering figure asks for a black coffee,
gripping a crinkled dollar bill.
Winter gusts beat bundled figures outside
shelterless Dickson Hall. Ski caps pulled down low,
We crouch, grimace, stand ground.
Some go down in defeat, retreat,
long lines bracing away, but I stay,
my hands struggling to light a match.
A tall redhead has my fire. We stand, smoke, wait
for a can of Coke and chicken fingers.
Out of the depths of Dickson Hall, we hang,
swaggering near trails of cigarette butts
tossed aside the Humanities building. The stench
of lunch truck fries, grilled meat creeps into my stomach,
an empty pit. My mind digesting meals of stark Realism,
creative writing juices, rebellious Romanticism.
Mike yells, “Whaddaya need, cuz?”
A shivering figure asks for a black coffee,
gripping a crinkled dollar bill.
Winter gusts beat bundled figures outside
shelterless Dickson Hall. Ski caps pulled down low,
We crouch, grimace, stand ground.
Some go down in defeat, retreat,
long lines bracing away, but I stay,
my hands struggling to light a match.
A tall redhead has my fire. We stand, smoke, wait
for a can of Coke and chicken fingers.
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