A Murderous Sonnet
Ballad of the Sea Chicken
13 Ways of Looking at Punk
The Iniquitous Doctor Time: A Villanelle
When Cities Awaken
A Murderous Sonnet
On wings of black it sails ’cross the sky,
Which cowardly of soul a murder dubbed.
Sharply claws come an’ cleaving beaks here fly.
What shame to cast such creatures so unloved.
And judged for feasting carrion, those long-dead.
That man’s own brother slayed without pretense.
The swooping shades care not once all is said,
For keenest minds as such spare no expense.
But let not smarts nor size delude you, nay!
For these small plotting avians hold a grudge,
And count on pecking flocks to ruin your day.
For vicious, great amusement is their drudge.
But ’sides such zeal for divebombing, in part,
These dark ole rascals tend to take your heart.
​
​
Ballad of the Sea Chicken
​
It was a brisk, bright morning, late last spring,
On the balcony, I did set grub on the rail,
Then went back inside for a cup of Joe,
And confounded I turned, for there came a great wail.
​
Our crow friends scampered, and my kid cried out,
“Father, there's a seagull. The eagle of the sea!”
The goofy ole bird, at me squawked and stared.
“Not an eagle, son, but a chick'n that I see.”
​
His cheese-feet swiftly beelined for the chow,
Speed over precision, he swallowed the whole bunch.
Raging, then I raced all across the room,
Thousand curses yelled and nigh killed him with a punch!
​
Wings stretched out, he took off in a flash,
I shook my angry fist at the wild blue beyond.
A petty little win that I failed to enjoy,
Glancing back again, on the balcony he’d spawned!
​
What's that you're eating, chick'n from the sea!
Tell me what you’re eating—guess that we will see.
Where is it you waddle, chick'n from the sea!
Tell me where you're waddlin’, oh, so happily?
​
That damned sea chicken, he knew not of fear,
And my schemes once so clever, now were all futile,
Wondering why he'd risk his tail, soon the—
Mystery came clear—Chicken had a juvenile.
​
Since he flew by to devour on the hour,
I set him with another nosh spot to be shared,
Crows were doubtful, but chicken did behave,
For goin’ without banquet was more than they could bear.
​
From my keyboard, the seasons swept on through,
Chicken kept on coming, now carrying his tyke,
Just a lil peeper, treasure to his pops.
And soon it dawned on me that we were not unlike.
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Yeah, we were a couple of old scoundrels,
Barely willing, unprepared, givin’ it our best.
Tired or sad, going out into the world,
Rollin' with the punches, a task without contest.
​
Now he wails on down when his fancy strikes,
Wets his nozzle in the water and he barks at the TV,
Often way past midnight, he comes around to cluck,
And I find myself a-chattin' with the chicken of the sea.
13 Ways of Looking at Punk
​
four libertine Saicos
from 60s Peru
playing absolute shit.
anger, riffs, and garage hearts.
dash of surf and reggae—
devil may care!
ride the winds,
a hint, a meme, a movement
music revolution.
against the flower, to fight
the power, denouncing—
hypocrisy.
summer’s end CBGB’s,
empty show of four ripped jeans,
all eyes on Bowery.
English economic winter,
in streets of decay, the sounds—
pistols and clash.
safety pins and leather,
freedom is angry, tunes that
reject the norm.
Oki Dog sun tables,
John and Henry fight pigs,
dollar twenty-five egg sandwiches.
night full of screams,
slam dance sweat twirl,
warm beer splash!
Cuckoo’s Nest buzzards,
Tower Bar rats,
hot asphalt rebel cells.
insolent print-filled walls,
dives of sticky tar floors, all
ashtrays, whiskies, and noise.
buzzed skull nods
mohawk headbutts
calloused handshakes.
chainsaw guitars, machine gun drums,
baleful bass, blood-spit microphone,
damn the man, unite all punks.
The Iniquitous Doctor Time: A Villanelle
​
No one said life was meant to be a crime.
You walk the sun ’til warm and light go out.
So deems the iniquitous Doctor Time.
​
Heroes battle forth against the slime,
But capes and cowls don’t always win the bout.
For there’s a rival deadlier than crime.
​
When strength and mind are worth less than a dime.
Your knees will bend and legend fill with doubt—
So deems the iniquitous Doctor Time.
​
And all the effort spent on such a climb,
Enough to make the mountains stand and shout
That life was never meant to be a crime.
​
But this whole gripe is part of his design.
No matter how you run or where you route—
So deems the iniquitous Doctor Time.
​
So fight your fight, enjoy, and drink the wine.
For birth to death is sometimes drown or drought,
But life was never meant to be a crime.
So deems the iniquitous Doctor Time.
When Cities Awaken
​
Up on stone ledges, down alleys of night,
Where a snore grows to a rumble, and
Cities awaken to give up the light.
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The warm bask offers such comforting sight.
Gold tones surrender to sodium and lamp,
Dousing stone ledges and alleys of night.
​
Daywalkers retreat to lock up in fright,
But those who like neon prepare to come out,
When cities awaken to give up the light.
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Cabs flooding the streets, trains rush left and right.
Bars pounding with jazz and spreading a buzz—
Over ledges of stone and down alleys of night.
​
I rise with a frenzy and head full of fight,
To soak up nocturna that spreads like a howl—
Of a city awakened to give up the light.
​
I crack stiff knuckles and shape up to write.
With keyboard and whiskey, I soar like an owl—
Up ’round stone ledges and down alleys of night,
When cities awaken to give up the light.
A Day at the Park
​
Under blue California skies or tungsten New York nights,
Washed in seaside surf or the blaring traffic of Bridge and Pearl.
Concrete maws with palm tree fangs and coping pipe lips.
Slick gray angles peeking at steel column legs under red brick skirts.
In freeway shadows and warehouse forgotten,
Draped in sun-baked leaflets of gigs long-gone,
And swirls of cryptic aerosol pigment,
Of rainbow scenes more psychedelic but some psychopathic,
Buried under official off-matched government patches and presumed dead,
Just to be revived once more, under cover of darkness, like burning holy scripture,
Made by lawless ninja artists blasting hip-hop and punk from unironic retro boomboxes.
Carrying rebel sounds that once stood apart but melted together as the whirlwind path,
Of the scraping wood and the grinding rail and the screeching polyurethane.
The symphony of fateful movements in the endless arsenal of physics,
Impossibly bent and coerced under rubber sole and grip tape,
To obey their hellion masters, fueled by rage and frustration and ecstasy and freedom,
To pierce the veil divine and for mere seconds, elevate that mortal flesh,
To rushing, twirling, weightless, burning dynamo gods, drenched in sweat and blood and thunder,
Who fear no death and kneel for nothing and no one between sky and concrete,
That lets loose and mends from the throbbing beatings and scorching sun, concrete oases,
That sleep once more under watchful moon and gentle breeze,
To the lull of the waves or the hum of the traffic,
To dream once more of soaring deeds past and the many still to come.
Saturday Morning Rebel
​
Late night screams
And rail whiskey dreams,
Strobe Light flashes in tar pitch rooms
Of slam dancing frenetics splashing perspiration
To a barrage of Dead Kennedys and Iggy Pop and The Damned.
You, a storm of beer-soaked leather jacket and cigarette breath.
Your dyed crimson hair whipping my face.
Slow motion noise. Bass note footsteps.
Take me, O savage night!
Bed shaking, shaking. Seismic mattress.
Drapes peeled back like fruit.
Get up, you goon, her pink puckers grumble,
From behind limp Crimson tresses.
Dripping like bloody murder.
I am besieged by warped reflections.
Limbs beaten. Head in a vice. Eyes breakdancing on sandpaper.
Besieged by turncoat anger, now aimed at your humble person.
Besieged by curtains not serving a stage,
And the blinding light of a merciless sphere.
Petty tyrant, destroyer of sleep.
The hostilities of unwanted hours,
Enforced by the hunched robed figure now whipping with complaints.
I turn in fear of that invasive orb and that commanding digit,
Get thee back, robed figure, get thee back!
I stumble off, legs buckling,
In painful search for solace,
Down claustrophobic corridors of white walls and cream puff floors,
Dodging dizzying wafts of maple and jasmine,
Every step mined with a rainbow of doodads and gizmos,
Jagged, creeping, screeching, squeaking!
Sole piercing, shin hitting, squawking nightmarish tunes,
And the looping bleats of barnyards and hooting monkeys,
Spilling chaotic creatures of technicolor.
O spare me, dear Fates, spare me!
This crawl on knees and hands, an inch from oblivion,
An inch from the marble tower, on its altar a chalice.
Potent thunder. Hot life blood churning.
Mind as the deep forest brook. Razorblade stare.
To the expectant one. Ever demanding. From chair on high.
I speak, Lucky Charms or Cheerios?
Mystifly
​
Mystifly
Traverse the myrmidon sky
On translucent trails of shimmerwing
A sparkling rain on green terrain
Rise above the bluffs, to cotton candy puffs
Below folks wave—Leave bottom depraved
Beyond sidereal blazes—cosmic phases
Scintillating creature—seek your future.
Magenta dust—shed flesh and lie
Fused with mind’s eye—
Mystifly.
Ode to Beer
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Out of all the vices I hold dear,
I confess my heart belongs to beer.
Some folks profane prefer’t Old Testament—
Greed, pride, or envy is their regimen.
But biblical trifles are quite fickle,
And my earthly fancies they don’t tickle.
Then we have those unfaltering puff heads.
Lightin’ pipe bowl, stoggie, pack of reds.
Musing of Sherlock, Churchill, or Dean.
I’ll stick with my brewski—sudsy and clean.
From Ninkasi’s hands pour divine clay jar,
Like twin rivers to Raqefet mortar.
Humble grain drowned to mush,
Fermented to satisfy every lush.
Come now flowing draught of perfect joy,
Quench hearts of gods and kings and hoi polloi!
Breathtaking brew of bottled sunbeams,
From lively golden noon turned amber dreams—
Of vibrant sunsets ebbing down to nights.
A painter’s palette to order up in flights!
But if this picture I have painted,
Still leaves yours senses unacquainted,
Flavors aplenty will sway your stance,
With a crisp lager, thirst stands no chance.
A roasted stout for tastes more discerning,
The juicy saison to fill your yearning,
Or India pale for those hop crazy,
And yeasty hefs, so smooth and hazy.
In backyard bash or fancy banquet,
The beer abides, go on and drink it!
Just remember to be cautious.
Don’t want this ode to make you nauseous.
But if a hangover slows your pace,
Indulge in a Michelada’s hot embrace.
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To My Typewriter
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Come now my warriors—
Forty-four strong—
Strike hard and true—
Don’t let me be wrong—
March forth with a clack—
Hammer your name—
Etch down the story—
Writing’s the game.