Doin’ the Dystopian (pt.III, Permission to Hide)

Miss Mary curls up beside me sleeping
(or pretending, likely she’s had enough
of me) on
this day if for now,
if I can postpone the remote/
flatscream chnl.46, put off for
another hour or three
the madness, our
daily death march juxtaposed
with an OrangeMan lying to us all
through goggles-no-mask having just
been served a McMuffin by a suddenly
ill valet, if I can do this, then
today COULD be one wide exquisite haven
of cloudy and cool
of as dark and thick and reassuring as
the very belly of my sweetly (perhaps
dozing?) sweet

cat. No tryin’ hard to be cheery
weatherfolks sharing news of a
perfect spring day ‘cuz ain’t nothin’
nearly perfect no more,
so please do postpone the utter gall in
in assuming bright shiny and warm
as delineated from our bedroom windows,
would be preferable to the precious of
protective: windy misty stay stay
P&J sandwiches and junky sweatjamas,
stay all cloudsU2 yes! More solace in this
grinning at a simulated sun
with an ambivalent grin and
biting noxious bullets as

we squint in the harsh
light of pseudo renewal and the dying and
the lying. Permission to
hide: now, and I learned it
back then which is really
all I’d wanted to chat about today:
rain-out days at day camp,
no stumbling for wicked line drives in exiled
right field, no sadistic races for flustered
11-yr-olds from the horrifying pop-gun
start. Stay
clouds today, stay! then, back

then, just creamsicles, then movies,
in the
just-saved-my-butt shaded bellies
of damp old day camp
rec rooms.


When You Could


Today, remembering pre-
virus models and math, this was six
years ago following another
six years preceded by another
six when I got to hug you,
after all that time and gazillion
long-dried tears and in
a silly franchise
restaurant, of all places. Hugged
you, before I could change my mind
or couldn’t, wouldn’t. Was this
preferable to
raging crying hating
what I was still incapable of
not loving? In this
restaurant, none
of this happened and
all of this happened and
by that I
mean I’d no idea
what this was supposed
to mean. Nor comprehend it

especially well: Your eyes
should not have been as alive, as
swimmin’ at me delicious as
recollected, but they were and
there you were, you, sans me
and with new mate in da wings,
then? You’d just

into a ghost who
just happened to be me it
just happened, I didn’t mean
to spook and my only parlor trick
on that day was inadequate:
simply staring down so
many dried tears and drying-up
sad dreams on a loop, to
be no one’s-biz ‘cept my
own: a flimsy encore ending
to what was
dreams, dashed, done. It said, via lamination
it said it right there on a shiny sign
in that silly
franchise restaurant right
there right above franchise hours: “NO bare
feet/ tshirts &
PLEASE NO: messy reuniting
soulmates NOR reigniting past
torments hold back URtears and
inconvenient torment/Karaoke Nite’s
Wednesday & WE THANK

it was this: a lame-o laminated hug
in a laminated lobby of a
silly franchise restaurant, 9
seconds or so I managed
to postpone
this free-floating purgatory of

a no-longer
you&me, postponed
the redundancy of being
a ghost
dissipating into vapor, hell yes for
those 9 seconds I staved off the ol’
lure of loose and
loony and licking spots I’d abashedly still
coveted, loony and full-moony and
lopsided (the way you used
to like, love):

no ghost, no
laminated warnings about grief beyond
reasonable/fix-with-a-peckywooden kiss/
fixable reasonable levels,
cease & desist! the
way you would love me if you
had still loved me,
the way you’d
plop your long bare toes on
my lap, smile-kissy then a
both salty and sweet finger
crooking my direction, I mean
ghost in a laminated lobby me
the flesh-&-
blood me, into
your toes-to-soul,
when you
could, and would.


The Other King of New Orleans

Sidney Bechet, grandson of Omar, a
slave murdered because he was a slave
back in OldNewOrleans, later on Sidney Bechet
might’ve been the other king of New Orleans
but there was Louis and room for only
one such king here then. So in
Paris Bechet found both loyalty &
royalty & was duly
crowned. Sidney Bechet called

all nonclassical music ragtime.
Whatever it was, he
played it & when he
went from clarinet to soprano sax,
Bechet invented that, whatever
that new soprano sax lightning was,
it was from Bechet & Bechet
invented that. Paris: key grease on

fingers, fresh-shaved
reeds at the ready to uncork lightning
into the smoky violet hazes of clubs &
concert halls, in this Paris that had
adopted then adored him for a
lifetime & lifetimes to come, Bechet ok, on

“Tin Roof Blues” he played it like soft
crimson sopranosax kisses, caressed protected
like a mamajazzbear right before releasing
Bourben Street-borne baby into
the big bad ensemble &
maybe Charlie Shavers who was maybe the
only trumpetman of his time who could keep
up with Bechet’s lightning these bluest
blasts, maybe Charlie Shavers made sure every
heaven-sent solo-halos where every note
was Heroism Itself didn’t go off &
wander too far, got-to keep on our
planet these many immortal notes of Bechet,

whose grandfather was Omar, a slave murdered
because he was a slave. Omar’s grandson
Sidney Bechet became a king in Paris &
he always said, all nonclassical music
is ragtime, is my music, & this
is how he played it.


soaring on some early autumn sunday mornings

my bicycle it was a taxi
whizzing up and down and around my
street from one empty driveway to
the next. driver,
me: boyfella i was,
chasing down fare after
fare, wind whistles in my ears and
now i know the whistling’s also
maples and weeping
willows but wait, the whistling!: my
passengers all vying for a ride, a
ride from
me to some
somewhere, flagging me down,

a soggy cigar cum pretzel log
in my mouth, and
billowing above,
bright ‘n’ beautiful wayward
cherryvanilla clouds, that,

and the banana-seat
bicycle’s brakes screeching
from one
empty driveway to the
next, squeaky brakes sure but
hey (chompin on my
getting-mushy pretzel log, not
mean but all-business) like
c’mon pal? after all
i’m on duty! see? look,
listen to the sheer if-
kinda squeaky
of the crackling gravel, the
bursting-with-grit of

reliable lil’ cabbie i was,
through piney red and
gold gusts whatta
cool job! and my
passengers were
nice people, tips were fine BUT

(sshh please don’t
tell a soul) i
would’ve done all this
soarin’ for nuttin’: me,
stingray banana bike, together
through the october
gusts we
soared for a couple or
three hours
on a coupla may four?
sundays back then
all was well, really
really well.


Poem for Pee Wee Russell

Ah Pee Wee Russell
dirtiest clarinet in town
jass-writers back then all cranky
clamoring for the Dorseys or hell
anything more diluted than this,
anything cleaner neater spiffier
NOT you, so what’d you do? You
blew it up their stiffasses
man they just didn’t get with
your wrinkled suits your
codeine twitch, if you’d been
black might’ve condescended such
earthy attack but a twitchin’
white man sounds like that? he’s

gonna get some flack, you
blooooosbastard you, your cig&
whiskey breath torpedoing
notes, such rebel notes, through

the fire of your
hot as hell licorice stick,
couldn’t even figure
that smoke from
the gigantor growling mass
of licks&tics from you, aiming that
clarinet both below their waists and
above their heads, they
couldn’t wait
to jasswrite column next, to
pan Pee Wee, maybe even
demand striped vest/straw hat
extradition, for
that somethin’ else that

they couldn’t wouldn’t call
DIXIEland nope, wasn’t all
muzzled and marketable
so, what was this
off-the-grid growl, these
tics of a
codeine-man, that inevitable stain on
on a late-late night tie?: FOOK ’em

man! stay right there on that
bandstand and let ’em glare, those without
a clue, into the air, smokyblue
air that was yours-not-theirs, and
hey you always had your lovers!
out there smokin
as you
smoked through the
smoke, soul
not for sale: Back in Your
Own Backyard,
Pee Wee Russell, you kept
on twitchin, tellin’
an authentic tale.


diner, drizzling

1)I arrived here notebook in hand
from the cool drizzle outside in
hopes of unclogging a stanza
or two from an
unfinished poem. the
waitress who brought my coffee
said “ok hun” on cue cuz that’s
what most waitresses in diners
seem to do,
and she was keeping
her end of the bargain, but I wasn’t, looking but not really at some lines promised by me a new life today, got to birth
some wordbabies
today, c’mon
but alas and while we’re
still not at it,
DO keep in mind
too much eros in
air with me as ghosts/W/soulful
erections sort of poems as of late,
got to get those little
wordmonsters in line,
with passion and purpose and
while we’re still not at it,
would it asking TOO
much 2) in from diner door
from the drizzle with
funky gray suede boots
with shockwaves of freckles,
swimming on in up down
drizzledface, when she
shook out
her formidable red braids, a
few droplets
landed on me. I went
from notebook and stilted, even begrudging lil’ wordmonsters,
to a stuttering heart,
when she took the table
next to mine
and I smelled
damp suede and drizzly
freckles, quite the breakfast combo
in this diner in the boonies, but
3) damn where’s the poem? no
not some grade-b Death in Venice (diner-take) for chrissake? as just
a table away, I inhaled suede and substance and silliness, side order of perfect splashes of nutmeg and
her for damnsure high IQ kinda way
green eyes, all of this
established, soon as
she’d shaken off the rain, some of those drops on me. her cell, her bell book & candle yes, this part
was my hallucination, but not the steaming espresso (nutmeggy clouds of course) all
delivered and arranged, all,
within maybe a dozen minutes. screw stultifying New Order of Poem Pledges, this was all within a dozen minutes
and stutters of my now delightfully disordered heart: but COULD I deliver all this? 4)all her drizzleddazzle all
this, from pen-to-paper by such a deliriously distracted heart?
I hear “hun” from the beloved AuntkindaWaitress who, to
table next to mine,
delivered one more
espresso and this
time too, a blueberry tart.


GONE FROM GIT-GO (free to a good home!)

Say, in baseball I’m the starting pitcher but by the third inning
it’s obvious I don’t have my good stuff today, they’d call
the bullpen and
get someone else ready
yes a bummer but
that’s baseball, and redemption’s quite possible only five days
ahead, or, closer to real
not mythical Mets-me, say,
my solo on
2nd tune, opening set doesn’t say
much like, it’s not horrible but
heart mind must have been AWOL
but it’s quite possible I’d rip it
in 10 ,15 minutes next tune, I’d
play with more
or less fire, hit
some high ones or
live breathe love
in the coolNmellow downtown,
that’d be a not unrealistic
expectation. K, deal, Imma trumpet player (on-DL for a bit but not
a pro pitcher! but hey!) all
those roads to
what feels right on all those gorgeous days of emerald carpets, red clay, these late-June days nights ripe with
righteous left-right
roads to redemptions. Not
this so wrong here right now
inna poem in search of
a wouldacoulda, seems being
tired scared & Mr.Mojo
still MIA all that kinda laundry,
but whaablaah I’ve put us
through quite enough here
already. Let this simply be
what it appears to be, some
of ignoble meanderings
I’d wish to reassign to a
someone else
RIGHT NOW, witha
someone witha fatter thoughts
witha tons
more of tougher leaner
less fear, to take
a real shot at realroads
to real redemptions to
tappy ‘long YOUR
lappy, to, please take this
and please have-a party
pump something
more entertaining and purposeful
than these gone
from GitGo lines
lost, in any translation.



(sometimes can be a great notion)…

call this place what you will but
here even long-gone cats &
turtles riffing along on shores of
peachy peyote pebbles & a bessie smith
greets a jimi from a
red or gin house for
ever delicious this fever &
hey jimi! it’s ok, little wings gonna
take you to peachypeyotepebble
shores, & brand-new electriclady
day, everywhere cliffs of feathers
blessing every child got its very
own, we will hug or

wail along THIS watchtower, an
empress & a jimi on fire that scorches
only in a good way so that
good-melting hearts of good
cats & turtles & just-folks here, where
the wind cries Ma Rainey too, she winks
at them both & says, you can fish in
MY sea! ‘long as james here anthems
us every hundred years or so, so it’s
really our kinda blue.


that late afternoon into an earlier us

That late summer afternoon into
an earlier us, perhaps your
first surprise visit when you
jumped me and pinned me down
with your salty skin
and poise, mauled me with your mischievous eyes before branding me with your witha-wink
dig-my lusciousgirrlstink, your mighty molecules molesting
the room with not much
molecular space set aside for me
and why should there have
been? when you shackled me with witchery and summer grime
and then made me sign numerous documents BUT not
before licking my eyelids shut
so I couldn’t see what fate you’d
outlined for me, then, a mere 3
hours into this twistysoakedsheets marathon we were ravenous
for pizza but decided no! delivery
call no, not
until we read some Jane Kenyon and Frank O’Hara
to each other in this
jeepersjoy new kinda byU jungle
air, air thoroughly pickled byU,
very cool that we
post-coital postponed on pizza
delivery, right after you threw
your muddy toes on my lap and
said, first, poetry, asap.




lightning cracks the sky.
she inhales then chokes on
first raindrops, resurfaces and
gasps. she’s maybe 68 inches
and 110 lbs of black coffee and
cigarettes and, streaks of
purple popsicle flames shout
through her thick black bangs,
hanging heavy over this
sworn2b-blank2day face. like
a tired but
young panther, testing,
pawing the fresh
mud on her bony haunches, she
says only

this: “yes I rule and
yes how ridiculous?” is
all she says, trembling
in a pre pouncy crouchy thingy way
on all fours, she
laughs then
licks backs of her hands, spits
into the mist:
an angry aroma, both
warning and
dictum both, delivered
to us all, delivered
directly into a dark
blue wind.