Tuesday, March 8, 2022

The Unforgiving Din of Living


When even laying down
a constant onslaught of sounds
force your consciousness, against its will, to rise
to the level of interpreting what is being heard.

Amidst the bar music, traffic, horns, drunk revelry
fights and the bridge and tunnel squeals
of the uninvited,
one prays for a specific type of silence
a sacred  respite
without even the high pitched tone of white noise's 
silent screeching,
a true silence
inky infinite and black black
empty and devoid
such that even one's inner dialogue is 
by the cacophony of soundless
on the edge of oblivion and consciousness. 

Give me silence
blessed silence. 

Monday, November 29, 2021

Roxanne's Beads

Between 10th and 13th Streets

from Third Avenue through Alphabet City

each corner was staked

claimed with the blood, urine and broken jewelry of the female barkers

fleshy menageries of the drugged and enslaved.

Some with the bud of youthful beauty

new to the trade

others hardened and misshapen

using layers of dollar store makeup and bangles to hide the bruises

all smoking cigarettes

glossy eyed expressions displaying

boredom, fear, anticipation, hope and hopelessness

in equal measure

while admonished by my mother

to give them wide berth

I would go out of my way to say hello to them all

so they knew they were seen.

Each morning the path to school

was marked with cracked corners and a cornucopia of beads

evidence of the evening's violence

plastic, crystal, brass, glass and clay

I would ceremoniously collect them

a street urchin's treasure

wondering if I'd ever see the wearer again

most often not

hardened lost souls

we never heard cries for help

buried beneath the din of drunken revelers

Hell's Angels and sirens.

My bead box

now in the back of my closet

a forgotten homage

 to the disposable

keeps safely

the ghosts of these now gentrified streets

where escorts now carry cell phones and can afford to live in 

"market rate" apartments. 

Friday, November 19, 2021

Stone's Inaudible Hymn


Born of fire and baptized by water

we have all been impacted, driven, shaped and remade by time.

The elements, our parents

coupled with gravity and star dust

from whose essence we were born

along with an infinitesimal ounce of intent

give rise to the depth of our story

stoic sentinels

witnesses to the rhythm and rhyme of time's discourse

Wind sings through our bones

giving us voice to sing

for those with ears to listen.

Regardless of our shape, size or man's 

wanton desecrations and intent

we remain eternal.

Thursday, July 29, 2021

I Dreamt You Were Coming Home, Then I Forgot Where I Lived


I dreamt you were coming  home

Then I forgot where I lived. 

Caught in a firmament of 

crumbling bricks

and molded bread,

I sought my path

as I would a tail,

chasing myself in circles,

frustrated at a formerly known destination

that won't stand still

hoping instead

that someone will find me

in this labyrinth of skin and dirty laundry.