Musings

Microfiction: Motorcycle Boys

2009-10-18T11:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Microfiction: Beth's Vanity

2009-10-18T11:06:00.000-07:00

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.

Vacant Addresses Poem: 38 Jackson Street

2009-10-16T00:14:00.000-07:00

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.

Early Poems: The Race

2009-10-16T00:12:00.001-07:00

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.

Early Poem: Gasp

2009-10-16T00:02:00.000-07:00

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.

Toy Maidens

2009-10-11T23:07:00.000-07:00

Amie Rose
(for Angelica Rose Petito Evans)
I dreamed about her last night—
Amie Rose propelling streets
in a pink Huffy two-wheeler,
fringe-lined handles slapping her cheeks.

Corner park boys paw across
a maze of rope, in a game.
bodies shifting, maneuvering,
dangling, struggling.

Amie Rose blows through these streets.

Saturday Afternoon With Tracey
We pulled out those old Barbie and Ken dolls
down in your basement, the dream house.
I dressed Barbie, smoothing yellow hair,
red dress, matching heels.

You knew I didn’t want to be Ken, Tracey.
It’s so much more fun being a girl, isn’t it?
Ken and Barbie zoomed off on their dream date.
She admired his creamy white teeth,
knew better, yet no. She set her hopes.

And so much for primping, prepping, plucking,
tightening, clay masks. So much for holding out.

We rubbed their plastic fasces together, disrobing them.
“Hey, let’s try a kiss,” you said.
I never French-kissed anyone
before, Tracey.
We didn’t feel a thing,
except our slimy tongues. We learned.

Now just light yourself another Marlboro Light.
Don’t worry. They don’t make you sterile.
Pick the wish cigarette (you know the one)
turned upside down before lighting up.

Now you’ve lost one Ken, four kids later.
And me—well my little heart dies every day.
Lovers that never loved and the one
love I’m losing.

Bubbles
Waving plastic wants,
Swirling iridescent blue, pink
Streams, bursting soap dew.

Hopscotch
(for Hanna and Melani Lallo Filosa)
Hanna and Melani
painting cement squares,
thick blue lines, crooked edges
numbered through nine.

Slap clapping hands together,
dust clouds puffing,
powdered faces, feet hopping
one leg at a time.

Grim clouds sneak
in, shifting
washing watercolors
blue lines bleeding.

Monkey Bars
Stretching one arm at a time,
pink fingers grip, turn white, pink
with each bar she lunges for before
missing one.

Tender flesh throbs, crimson stains,
coating sugared tiny pebbles black,
shimmery, exposing ridges of Devon’s knees

She slows, gets up, dusts.

Eyes and cheeks crinkle up, but
it hardens, crusts in time.
Red to brown, peels away painlessly,
amid a squirrel’s prying
black eyes.

Gleaming.

Seesaw
(for Angela Lallo Filosa)
We sat upon a hard, wooden plank.
Red paint chipping, exposing white.
Clenching iron handles so cold.
I called you “Angel” and you
were anything but.
We launched, gradually rising,
swiftly descending. Balance.

Angela, your sly, pure smile stopped
a hush of wind to entrance us to stay
lured to your laughter, gentle sighs, keeping
us all so afloat.
Our legs flutter like blossoms, going
into cherry bombs bopping, silly little
No hand tricks I teach Lara now at six.

Will she ever catch your wing, Angela?

So lost, you and I.
But your were still there
When the blossoms fell in autumn
A breeze hoisting petals up before
they touched soil.

She
(for my mom, Seva Nicholaides)
is alive in coffee-stained black and white
snapshots, out of focus,
a one length bob, checkered blouse
near a candle burning.
The wax is caving deeper, the wick slides
Free, unscathed.
She is amber, blue.

Games
On Park Avenue, past WCWs house,
to Fun & Games arcade, strutting our stuff
for loose-liped boys
of limber means than us.

We go window shop, admire trinkets, mannequins.
I gaze but cannot touch, if I venture in, I bought it.
For now, I’ll just look, walk away.
Further ahead, near the overpass

Where concrete rumbles and steel frames unleash
night’s fury, where he takes you
For a kiss, a smoke. The wind kicks up,
through your knotted hair.

Walking through a decade of love, pains and
empty streets of fame, I look ahead, past garbage bins
stuffed past capacity to a rat’s delight,
feeding unnoticed behind Holiday Inn.
Cars zoom by on Route 17.

Red Shoes
Little girl, pretty white dress, tiny red shoes
run on soft, cushion grass,
learn life on concrete blues.

Are you living in the mood?
Running in the nude?

Armed with purple chalk, I leapt across
squares and numbers, pigtails
popping up and down. Voices were booming,
dishes clanging inside.

I mixed the salt and sugar shakers.

In her garden, I dart through snipped grass,
barreling around towering bushes, roses.
I race down rows of pavement.

She waters the tulip seeds.
They spring up magically,
taller than me.
The instant-grow kind.

Home-made dolls
Once
Aunt Angie from California made me a doll
with all the sugar and spice and nice things
that make little girls’ eyes light up
like sunshine.

First, she bought the foundation, the sewed
Shut, stuffed into shape mass
in all its off-white glory,
sinched at knees, elbows, hips, neck.

Then she dressed her in purple petticoats,
light blue dress, pink and yellow flowers,
rose and green ribbons.
She sewed on a dark brown yarn hair,
two shiny button eyes and a red line
of thread for a smile on a face as big as
a delicious chocolate chip cookie.

She added blusher, belonged to a previous generation
of women. I add my own.
I left her propped up by a window
caught in a downpour.
I got sick of her smile, neglected her.

Cheeks were stained in cool pink, smeared
nearly to her neck in cascades
matching her nappy ringlets, untied.
I dried her off, stripped her, washed her down
A bit with a white terry cloth face towel.
Damp.
And start a fresh face.

Poem: One Night in Wood-Ridge Municipal Court

2009-10-11T23:02:00.000-07:00

“If you’re pleading guilty, you better have money
or call a friend or relative,” Judge Janeczo barks.
I guess I’m going to fight that speeding ticket then.
I scoff at the prosecutor’s point reduction plea deal.
And wait until I’m almost the last one left.

Guilty pleas and dropped charges first.

A red-faced woman drops simple assault
Charges against her ex.
“Where did it happen?” Judge Janeczko asks.
“Her mother’s house.”
“Are you still boyfriend and girlfriend?”
“No.”
Case dismissed.

A Capri cosmetologist blew a .20 but wants
A furlough for three weeks to finish school.
“Do you realize that most people can’t stand
up with a .20?” the judge asks.
Break given. DWI fines paid.

A buxom brunette pleads no contest
To disorderly contact for freaking out
On police for trying to arrest her friend.
Snickers in the courtroom from the
Burly guy next to me and his biker girlfriend.
“Do you realize this is going to follow you
around for the rest of your life?”
She does. I have to wonder what her future
Employment prospects will hold.

The burly guy is up.
Three cops stand next to him off to the side.
He decides he wants a lawyer for a charge
Statute number I’m not sure of.
But I sense he may have brawled with
These three men in blue

Cause they were pretty incensed, and so
Was the prosecutor, that justice hasn’t
Served him yet.

A teenager in a FYE “Get Used” shirt
Pleads no contest to pot possession.
“You know this pretrial intervention
thing is a one time deal, right? Next time
you get the full monty.”
But you have to pay to get in this program.
FYE just paid me for all my used CDs
So I could have enough money to pay
My utilities.

Everyone pays, some more dearly than
Others in this court.
This court has collected at least $3,000 tonight
So far.

I’m like the last one left. Prosecutor inches
Toward me. “What would you do in my situation?”
I ask, tears beginning to flow.
I go outside with him and spill my guts.
I have no money and don’t wanna get cuffed
For a damned speeding ticket.

He says he’ll talk to the judge.
It’ll work out.

I go before his honor.
“I make $800 a month,” I say, sobbing.
Anything, even $10 would make me happy.
I open my measly wallet, showing him I have
Nothing.
The deal is $50 next week, $89 during the next
Two months. A $35 defensive driving course
Will erase the points.
Guess I won’t be getting tires anytime soon.

Unlove Poems

2009-10-11T22:59:00.000-07:00

"If you want to be blamed, marry
If you want to be praised, die."
--Ethiopia (Galla)

A Girl Like Me
Unintentionally can’t nail down anniversaries,
tugs around wads of tissues to deal with a few issues.
And when I hang by a hinge,
an elixir softens the twinge.
Some things never feel the same.
Who do you love? turns into who’s gonna love you?

I shoulder lots of blame, guilt,
lost love, bridges burned, built.
Know great lines, scenes from movies
in which heroes fall, bleed, redeem themselves.

A girl like me
Is solitary…a big baby, some say, yet desensitized,
learned love’s short, forgetting is long.
Gets projections, reflections, directions,
reading Anne Sexton, Ray Carver,
shares whiskey, alive and well in serendipity.

I found a love to bleed for my affections
and a lover to feed on his possessions.
And who am I to try and change the world?

A girl like me
Gets her Z’s from 5 p.m. to 4 a.m. and vice versa,
rises to candles dancing wildly in the wind,
calls from out of area on caller ID.
The best way to make dreams come true is to wake up.

I’m unreasonable, persist in
adapting the world to myself, am
not afraid of the light, like some adults
but revel in the dark, see the stars.

A girl like me
runs on empty and
pumps the gas petal.

New York City on a Weary Heart
Lights turn green approaching the racetrack
going to New York City blasting to rhythms
divine, booming billboards and
Park it Here, and Ride, baby ride.

The bulbs of love shine in every color,
bouquets of roses per dozen only $2.99.
Liquor awaits and Famous Ray’s.
Numbers are rolling,

changing every second.

A bum will give me a hug or a rose
for a dollar and holler, “don’t judge a
book by its cover!,” his mechanical mouth
moving up and down.

A slight drizzle a mist, my face
embracing it...
what I’ll never have again.
Lights are changing, numbers rolling
maybe a chance you could still be mine.

Office Party and a Lame Bar
Office party where stiffs get down to
bad dance-by-instruction tunes.
Two drinks later, I jump on Parkway South.
Two years ago, she left you,
after four years…and she was 15 years your junior.
Two packs of cigs, two orange juices at 4 a.m.
talk of politics, corruption, destruction.
But now I’m driving endless loops to my destination
before nixing a return to 153A,
strapped in, I rush to the obscure bar.
A guy with a “Dick” nametag shirt hits on me, splits.
One leg on the amp, head thrashing, you spot me,
ask me to stay, spend time with you for your birthday,
party at your place. You’re 41 tonight, you say.
I plant a simple kiss.
Later, talk of guns, Smith & Wesson, semi-autos and .45’s.
“Hold it, see how it feels; clips out, safety’s off.”
And we’re loaded.

Anthony’s Apartment
Women burst from your walls, bearing breasts,
a black panther holding up a clear glass table,
Merits and Parliaments burn in a marble ashtray.
Django Rinehardt and Black Sabbath blares.
Maker’s Mark and cheap beer.

And there’s never enough booze, pills to
peel away your skins, find origins of
your eyes, hazel, not blue, you say.
“Is that all you got left?”
I leave my last one.

CDs burning, songs downloading,
Cash Converters tomorrow and grand marnier,
Popeye’s Chicken. I’ll come over with that
banana rum, Absolute Citron,
cigarettes and I emerge from a shitty $20 club review,
hear you play acoustic flamenco, classical, watch the Believers.

Another night, you call me at 4 a.m. and I
laugh because they turned you out.
So now you’re fingering positions, sounds, on your guitar.
Your students must learn theory, you say.
And there’s never enough darkness, never enough night.

Blind Date 1
Well, my date showed up early and I had to
retrieve my purse, left in my car from last night
when I hustled some guy for a few drinks.
He said he wanted me to be his girlfriend
for the night. I told him even a hooker
makes $100 an hour, distracted him,
sucked down the rest of his drink,
got lost in the shuffle.

Driving around with a designated driver
in a car with no headlights, high beams only.
No heat, no right blinker. A smashed driver’s side mirror,
windshield wipers go off track sometimes.

Radio station changes when I turn the wheel…
A car I slammed under a tree once, dents all over the hood.
You’d recognize it anywhere.
My ex did when he caught me with another guy.

Two friends drove me home and I puked
those drinks right up and into my toilet
for a while then went to bed.

Your ceiling is uneven.

So I excused myself to my date
found the purse in the back seat.
You don’t live until you feel pain, constantly.
Keeps you alive. Feeling.

Anyway, I’m cold, not on the straight and narrow,
drunk. A blind date. We got lost in Hoboken,
he got lost coming down from PA.
I’m lost in my own town.
I lost the keys to this diary.
March 12, 2001

Blind Date 2
Date with a guy from Linden who
owns four vicious pit bulls and a parrot that
says “fuck you, Kelly” (his ex)
On the way there, some guy almost
runs me off the road,

I let him pass,
he spins out of control, clips the divider,
lands the wrong way.

I get to the Cup at 2 a.m. after I got lost,

stopped at a motel for directions,

made a U-turn down a dead end road,

by an empty festival, I’m on
the wrong side of town.

But I stay for basement pool games,

cry on the way back home.
A love poem adorns his dresser.
"Love is…"
Well, his girlfriend strayed, gave birth
to his best friend’s child and well,
my deal is I’m dealing.

For a Lover
With an empty heart and fridge…cold.
He likes vanilla candles’ soft glow,
cupped out so Spillage is contained.
He cleans windows spotless with ammonia,
sucks up dust dots with a handvac, and
his guest towel is off-limits.

A lover who got me a deal on a firm mattress.
His is topped with pad, dry-clean comforter.
He has a favorite pen, knife, light, everything.
He never watches the sun rise, or longingly
looks in your eyes, kisses your lips, compliments,
makes love or touches your face with a gentle hand.
But he screws like a tidal wave.

A lover who shows no emotion, hates complications,
his stomach in knots, yet wants me in his life.
Sometimes his eyes glaze when he senses goodbye.
A lover who switched me from Absolute to Grey Goose,
and sips Corona nips in summer.
He owns a Kelly-standard branded guitar.

A lover who seals away painkillers in airtight plastic,
dreams of my black cat hugging his legs.
Or perhaps circling.

Change of Season
Evergreen backdrop, hangs, frames
what I had, as you slept I knew we’d
never see each other again. But I altered the
alarm clock so you’d stay longer,
awaken from your nap in the middle of the
night.

But now, across the lake, a dock with no takers,
no navigators, no more chances.
A gentle splash stirs, spreads toward me,
yet somehow never reaches across.

Costs
To burn a bridge all the way
down, worth your clout.
A disgrace, claw back up

about face, retrace, embrace your
mistakes, reflect defected
off a bottle. Expectations.

The red wax drips to purple, blue.
Mixing and soon it’s muddy, ugly,
missing distinction.

Night Ride
No headlights, dark parking lots, big trucks,
boys, toys, a lift in the air over his shoulders,
guesses me five pounds heavier but it’s okay,
Carry me there tonight, carry me there tonight,

where mother’s hand-knit body blankets warm
bare skin on cold nights. He unzips my black boots,
slides them off. Tonight, night shines on black streets
gleaming white, rain trails under my step.

One kiss trails off that last thought,
veers off track, but tracks form paths.

Skin shines under my fingertips
graze his chest, stomach, arm…trace
maps through his senses, we rush in
chase down the night, chase down the night.

Timmy Ryan
lives above Café Capri on the Avenue
room powered by candles, electric bill’s overdue.
Holes in his jeans, no condoms or beer left
the bed squeaks, the covers, sheets won’t stay put.

The baby doll tattoo on his neck in Chinese,
Blackjack and beers at Pub 46 with Verge
and tattooed girls in sandals and tube tops
Shake it up.

Timmy knows addiction. It gets into your bones,
at $10 a bag for diesel. He had a 12 bag/day habit,
needed 80 mg of methadone to make him “feel right.”
They don’t give a high dosage at first,
so you need dope for another week.
before they jack you up.

He’s been robbed, kicked,
beaten up down a Newark alley, jumped by four guys
as soon as he turned the corner
“Gimme your fuckin’ money, white boy.”
They punched him in the stomach. He buckled over.
The other guy kicked him in the face.

Timmy went to Sixth Avenue in Paterson,
three burned down houses in a row,
but somehow still standing.
You’d walk in between, follow a path
to the back window where they take your order.
You’re eighth in line sometimes,
do a transaction.

Timmy goes where backyard junkies hang out.
Three saw that he was dope-sick.
with $20 so there’s no way you’re giving it up.
He crumpled the $20 in his mouth.
They kicked him, broke a Snapple bottle
picked up a brick, threatened him, he gave it up.
They beat him with a stick, regardless.

Now he goes to Fifth Avenue projects.
His brother, Danny knocked on
A dealer’s door in Alabama.

A cop answered, pulled him in, sat him
on couch, and tore the place to shreds,
found dope, let the junkies go
…but they sweated it out for a half hour.

Once, they traded a mountain bike for four bags
But other dealers came up to them,
said it was fake shit. Screaming to old guy
‘you’re on our street’
Kids beat the shit out of him,
and they didn’t get anything.

The old guy was probably a crack addict,
Selling baby powder to dope fiends.
Dope. It won’t ruin your health but it’ll ruin you life, he says.
And Lisa’s all that’s left.
A whiffle ball bat and the game of Life.
Scooby Doo boxers that he makes a
nametag bracelet from for his girl.
And he misses those red M&M s from his aunt.

She’d pick him up from school
And his grin was wide, blue eyes
Sparkled until they turned to clouds,
Pins.

For a Lover
With an empty heart and fridge…cold.
He likes vanilla candles’ soft glow,
cupped out so Spillage is contained.
He cleans windows spotless with ammonia,
sucks up dust dots with a handvac, and
his guest towel is off-limits.

A lover who got me a deal on a firm mattress.
His is topped with pad, dry-clean comforter.
He has a favorite pen, knife, light, everything.
He never watches the sun rise, or longingly
looks in your eyes, kisses your lips, compliments,
makes love or touches your face with a gentle hand.
But he screws like a tidal wave.

A lover who shows no emotion, hates complications,
his stomach in knots, yet wants me in his life.
Sometimes his eyes glaze when he senses goodbye.
A lover who switched me from Absolute to Grey Goose,
and sips Corona nips in summer.
He owns a Kelly-standard branded guitar.

A lover who seals away painkillers in airtight plastic,
dreams of my black cat hugging his legs.
Or perhaps circling.

News Poems I

2009-10-11T22:46:00.000-07:00

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.

Reel Time: Untraceable

2009-09-09T12:40:00.000-07:00

While the Net, featuring Sandra Bullock, tackled the issue of identity theft in cyberspace, Untraceable, starring Diane Lane as an FBI agent trying to track a down a "Kill With Me" webmaster operating live stream executions dependent on viewership--highlights the age of voyeurism, reality TV and lifeblogging.

But more importantly, it highlights the fickleness of online viewers who hide behind anonymous monikers and egg on criminal acts, only to later commend the site for taking it down.

The more viewers the "Kill With Me" site, whose URL cannot be traced to one location, thrives on the actual viewers "killing" the victim. The more viewers, the quicker the victim expires.

A must see for any techie or Internet addict.

Quick Career Tip: Test Your Typing Speed at GoodTyping.com

2009-09-03T14:52:00.001-07:00

Goodtyping.com is a free web site where you can practice your typing and test your typing speed. Are you a two-finger typer or did you learn how to touch type like I did in high school? Test yourself. My speed is 65 words per minute.

When Celebrity Spawn Mimic Their Parents

2009-09-03T10:43:00.000-07:00

Children of celebrities who are in the spotlight are recreating the iconic images their parents are known for. Sean Lennon and his model girlfriend recreated the infamous Annie Leibovitz photo for Jan. 22, 1981 Rolling Stone magazine, hours before Lennon was killed on Dec. 8, 1980. This time, Kemp Muhl is seen nude, with a hint of nipple, spooning Lennon, dressed in brown slacks and a shirt in the Yoko Ono pose. The image graces the cover of French publication Purple. Too bad they couldn't get Leibovitz to snap the photo. I hear she needs the money.

Next, we have Lourdes Leon Ciccone, 12, posing as Madonna, circa Like a Virgin era, complete with wedding garb and pouty, matte red lips, blowing a kiss.

The resemblance and homage is haunting and beautifully done. She also looks great dancing and doing a backflip in Madonna's new "Celebration" video.

Jaws, Richard Kiel is Best Bond Villain

2009-08-27T11:47:00.000-07:00

Best known for his roles in the James Bond 007 films "The Spy Who Loved Me" and "Moonraker," Richard Kiel was perhaps one of the best-loved Bond villains. With sharpened steel for teeth and superhuman, often hilarious strength and feats of athleticism, he could rip a van apart, jump 30 feet across cable cars in mid-air, survive a skydive gone wrong, wrestle and kill a shark and much more.

A web site called richardbiel.com offers up personally autographed photos (starting at $10) and a testimonial from the actor about his life, alcoholism and a tragic car accident.

Long Branch Police Question Bob Dylan as 'Suspicious Person'

2009-08-16T22:27:00.001-07:00

Bob Dylan was stopped by Long Branch police last month while walking in the rain with a hooded shirt. Asked for ID, he didn't have it but walked back to his tour bus with police.

Bloggers bring out the race issue, praising Dylan for his politeness, yet decrying Gates for his fury as he was arrested in his living room. Regardless of how you see it, you should look at the person's state of mind. Sure, Gates may have overreacted, but he just got back from a long plane trip and was locked out of his home. Dylan was simply taking a leisurely stroll. Don't knock the police for doing their jobs.

The comparisons between Dylan's and Gates' interaction with police in these instances are like apples and oranges. It's not about race. Let the police do their jobs before crying out that the black man overreacted because he's black and cries racism but the white man remained calm.

Even more interesting are the following quotes from bloggers at nj.com:

Mityfine2009: "I think Bob was just looking for a song. Think about it. Long Branch has its emminent domain issues, fancy beachfront property, crooked politicians, high crime rate, gangs & illegal immigrants. It is a tale of 2 cities. Bob may have never been here before & wanted to check it out. He was probably curious about Bruce too & his long ago roots in LB. He's not afraid of the down & out - never was. And this is why he's good at being incognito. He always laughed at the establishment & sang of society's ills. His roots run deep into folk and blues - he electrified it back then & brought it into the future. That's why he is a legend today - like him or not." whopays:

"Strange comments. We should be happy when police protect the neighborhood. Unfortunately, some people distrust any police activity and assume the worse both of the officer and of anyone the police try to help.

In recent days, several people have told me that they have found themselves questioned by law enforcement officers while walking. In many NJ communities, "walking" is viewed as suspect behavior. Most answered the officer's questions and more or less made a new friend.

I do not know why Mr. Dylan strolled through Long Branch. Back when walking was not a strain for me, I enjoyed just walking through older towns - just looking at the buildings. As with Perth Amboy, Trenton, Elizabeth, Atlantic City, Long Branch may hold many marvels of construction - some hidden in "less desirable" neighborhood. I remember telling someone about a certain building in Plainfield only to be met with warnings about walking through such a dangerous, drug infested, "slum" (not the term I would have used). Stupidity and fear keep my associate from seeing an rather interesting piece of architecture."

citizen66:

"Considering his history of having an iconoclastic nature and escaping the overbearing media, it's not hard to imagine him wanting to take an hour away from managers, bodyguards, roadies, stage crews, et. al. He's always been that way, going way back to his days of walking around Greenwich Village in the 60's. It was not unusual for him to show up alone somewhere you'd never expect. He's a totally different breed than today's icons, who constantly find themselves ambushed by the media coming out of clubs & restaurants. If he were The President, he'd probably be giving the Secret Service the slip, too. Maybe he knew the Long Branch neighborhood, maybe not. Maybe he was looking up an old friend. Who knows? I suspect when Dylan's ready to give it all up for good, he'll just go out for a walk and keep on walking as far as he can; and like much of what he's said and done during his 45-50 years as a poet & musician, people will still be asking 'why?", and "what did you mean by this & that?" He's probably smiling right now & shaking his head wondering "why" all the fuss. Geez, let the man go out for some air once in awhile."

Reel Time: While She Was Out

2009-08-10T17:04:00.000-07:00

Kim Basinger stars as "Della," a woman who married the "hot jock" after college, had two kids and moved into a gated community. Her husband is abusive. The ordeal she goes through on Christmas Eve at a trip to the mall forces her to take control of her life when she's accosted in the parking lot after hours by a group of punks.
The chase ends up in the woods when she crashes her vehicle, abandons it and tries to elude them. There are some mistakes she makes like forgetting to charge her cell phone and leaving a nasty note on someone's car for taking up two parking spots and leaving her purse in the car. But perhaps if she didn't do these things, she wouldn't have come out stronger. Instead of her purse, she's armed with a little red toolbox. A screwdriver, large wrench, portable tire iron and road flare prove useful, to say the least.
Psychologically speaking, this movie is a wake-up call to abused and/or under-appreciated women everywhere.
Great DVD from Redbox, once again.

Guitar Notes for Dummies

2009-08-05T21:39:00.000-07:00

Long before the age of Guitar Hero, I wanted to learn the notes, feel them as Clapton would say.
I wasn't a groupie. I was more likely to be in the band. Sometimes I go through my scrapbook of the best of cutouts of years of Guitar magazine for the Top 100 Guitar Licks, Blues Bar Chords, transcriptions.
The best advice I could give as a mediocre player is the following. The great Don Manzo taught me how to memorize the guitar neck. Think "to be or not to be" (Shakespeare); B and E have no sharps. So hit the first string, the top fat one. It's an E. Hold it down and it's an F. Go down the fretboard and so on and so on.
My friend Anthony taught be the "fat E and skinny E" walkup from top to bottom and vice versa. It's (from the fat side) Every Ass Does Good Before Eating) and from the bottom (Every Bus Goes Day and Evening).
Barre chords were tough but once I built up my finger strenth, it was so cool. There was a time in my life about a decade ago when I played for up to 8 hours a day getting over a breakup.
I actually learned some sings by ear, got used to the sounds of some notes.

News Poem

2009-08-01T19:03:00.000-07:00

Plaxico Buress indicted. Antonio Pierce spared.
Michael Phelps breaks another record, gets more gold.
Zarate brother sentenced to 72 years.
Liberian "honor killing" condemned.
AC/DC rocks the Meadowlands.
A baby falls a few stories from a Newark apartment.
His diaper cushioned his fall, so he lives.
Ohio police chief arrested in SJP surrogate spying case.
Studies show high heels cause saggy breasts.
A Hemingway lookalike contest in Florida yields a winner.
Obama's approval rating drops.
Five cops shot in Jersey City.
Anti-violence marches rage through Newark and Paterson.
Martin Luther King Jr. streets are gang territory.
I want to have a beer with Obama.

RIP, Walter Cronkite: Fave Quotes About His Impact

2009-07-18T17:16:00.000-07:00

When an icon like Michael Jackson or Walter Cronkite dies, journalists memorialize by summarizing their impact. Time's "The Death of Peter Pan" was the best article I have read on Michael Jackson. Mark Washburn's article for The Record of New Jersey had some gems about Cronkite. Here are two:
"He took us around the planet and to the moon."
"Television’s speed, reach and impact had come of age, and Cronkite’s Midwestern timbre provided the soundtrack."
-Mark Washburn, McClatchy Newspapers

Reel Time: The Strangers

2009-04-22T21:11:00.000-07:00

Absolutely horrifying film, yet somewhat horribly done. Based on actual events. Starring Liv Tyler and some other guy who looks like Gerard Butler.
Shows how even if you have a rifle in the middle of nowhere in your vacation cabin, it doesn't matter, especially if you panic and lose cover. You're done. Spoiler alert ahead.
First off, you don't answer the door without looking through the peephole to see who it is. If a peephole does not exist, ask "who is it?"
Nada. Girl looking for wrong house. Just a glimpse of the terror as these people "play" with the couple for hours before doing anything else as they don elephant man disguises and other masks. Their phone lines are cut, vehicles destroyed in the middle of nowhere.
A wedding reception friend visits, is accidentally shot by terrorized pal, who then goes looking for perpetrators victimizing them.
Emotion overtakes him and leads to the couple's demise later. Don't go looking in the woods with no cover.
He's out in the open in the woods. The weapon is turned against him.
Lesson: Stay in one place, don't panic, have a plan and plenty of bullets.
Sorry for the lame review but the movie left much to be desired, especially at the end. Tell us what really happened to that couple, if anyone was brought to justice.
The evangelical kids in the end asking the threesome of terrorists if they're sinners does not quite do it for me, even when they answer "sometimes."
Still, truly terrifying.
I'd give it two stars out of four. Now pack heat and learn how to use it if you live in the middle of nowhere or anywhere at all you want to protect your property.

Hard Water is Good for You and other Blue Zone topics

2009-04-17T16:57:00.000-07:00

Daniel Buettner tracked "Blue Zones" and wrote a book about it, featured on Oprah. The zones are areas where people live over 90 plus years in active lives.
One area surprisingly found that hard water, due to its magnesium and calcium content was good.
So much for spring water.
Family, purpose and physical activity as well as diet were common threads in blue zones.
A few blue zones were included in Nicoya Peninsula Costa Rica, Loma Linda, California, and Sardinia, Italy.
Interesting indeed.

Reel Time: The Wrestler, Mickey Rourke Win Big

2009-01-26T21:40:00.000-08:00

Body slams. Razors in order to fake head injuries when you're down. A meticulously orchestrated show between WWF wrestlers. Throw in a weakened heart, battered body, busted up face, pain pills, performance enhancing drugs and an 80s soundtrack like no other (Scorpions, Cinderella, AC/DC, Dangerous Toys, Firehouse, Guns & Roses).
Wrestling has long been mocked as a "fake" sport, yet Randy the Ram (Mickey Rourke) sustains injuries like a broken clavicle, heart attach, hearing loss from the pounding.
Mickey Rourke is golden as an aging wrestler who struggles to pay the
rent on his trailer, reconcile with his daughter (Evan Rachel Wood) and
find love with an aging stripper, Cassidy (Marisa Tomei). The two develop a bond outside the strip club, at first. But ultimately, Cassidy can't cross lines with customers, even Randy.
Later rejected by both his daughter and Cassidy, Randy's solace is in the ring.
Ultimately, the stage is not in favor of an aging stripper, yet the
ring is just the place for an aging wrestler, at any cost.
Recognized by a deli customer at his part-time job in a supermarket, Randy explodes, storms out in a bloody rage and quits.
He cannot escape the ring. And he cannot keep a relationship.
His relationships exist only with his fans, who have followed him for nearly two decades.
But Cassidy has no more fans. Nobody wants to stuff dollar bills in her g-string anymore, yet wrestlers staple dollar bills to each other's bodies.
Randy decides that even if he has another heart attack, it's worth it. His fans worship him, the outside world is cruel.
The movie takes you all the way to the end, to the top rope, of Randy's career.