The Race Horse
To the people who own
The people who sit in the high clubhouse seats
Wearing blue blazers and big frilly hats
Drinking champagne from plastic glasses
Talking of scandals In Kentucky, Virginia, or Park Avenue
The race horse is but a commodity
Something to buy and to sell and brag about owning
Then when they are done, to dispose of
Without even a thought or a moments hesitation
But, to the groom, the hot walker, the exercise rider
The racehorse is real with hair and bone and blood in its veins
And a heart as big as the world that makes the horse run
‘till that heart almost explodes.
These are the people who rise every dark morning
And take loving pride care
And are there with big proudness
Whether he wins or he loses.
Friday, January 1, 2010
The Late Phoenix Bookstore
The Late Phoenix Bookstore
Cornelia Street
Greenwich Village
New York NY
The smell
of new books, ink, paper, sweat, blood, dust, love, lust
hits, smacks, slaps, thumps, snaps,
you
at the door.
Rows of shelves and
shelves of rows
of thin little books with spines of
red and blue and green and yellow
and all the colors splashing together
like at rainbows end.
Each full of words
coaxed, cajoled, enticed, coerced, bullied, pulled, torn, jerked, ripped
from the mother lexica.
Then
placed, scribed, printed, jotted, scribbled,
etched, scrawled, scratched, gouged
in the blood writing
of a myriad poet hands.
Inside soft chair lounging
and floor sitting
in the corners
the poet ghost presence lives.
Cornelia Street
Greenwich Village
New York NY
The smell
of new books, ink, paper, sweat, blood, dust, love, lust
hits, smacks, slaps, thumps, snaps,
you
at the door.
Rows of shelves and
shelves of rows
of thin little books with spines of
red and blue and green and yellow
and all the colors splashing together
like at rainbows end.
Each full of words
coaxed, cajoled, enticed, coerced, bullied, pulled, torn, jerked, ripped
from the mother lexica.
Then
placed, scribed, printed, jotted, scribbled,
etched, scrawled, scratched, gouged
in the blood writing
of a myriad poet hands.
Inside soft chair lounging
and floor sitting
in the corners
the poet ghost presence lives.
The Day Normal Changed
The day normal changed
Friday, November 22, 1963
Working 4 o’clock shift
1 o’clock get up
Shower out last night’s all night
Cigarette smoke
Beer drunk
Snooker table
Cobwebs
Ten dollars out front
Smile
Rush to laundry
Starched fatigues ready
Back to the barracks and change
Then off to the mail room before chow
Read/walk a letter from my grandmother
Check enclosed
Smile
A tear streaked face snaps in front of me
Its mouth opens,
“They shot the God damned President”
I stopped and
Normal changed
Forever.
Friday, November 22, 1963
Working 4 o’clock shift
1 o’clock get up
Shower out last night’s all night
Cigarette smoke
Beer drunk
Snooker table
Cobwebs
Ten dollars out front
Smile
Rush to laundry
Starched fatigues ready
Back to the barracks and change
Then off to the mail room before chow
Read/walk a letter from my grandmother
Check enclosed
Smile
A tear streaked face snaps in front of me
Its mouth opens,
“They shot the God damned President”
I stopped and
Normal changed
Forever.
Sunday Morning Moon Beach Okinawa
Sunday Morning
Moon Beach, Okinawa
1965
By Fred Shira
Waves rhythm lap
Against ancient Chinese placed rocks.
Gulls float static overhead.
The sea smell drifts in and out
cleansing the olfactory memory of
dead bodies in
black bags lined up and firewood stacked
on the sun heated tarmac
where wounds rot and stomachs swell
and death smells leak through zippered teeth.
But here strewn along the cool beach sand
like a Dali painting lay
the remnants of last night’s Saki revelry
sleeping youth taut bodies
airman, soldiers, sailors
all too young to be asked
what they are being asked to do.
But then what is the right age
to die?
This morning
with my knife and a pineapple
bought for just a quarter
I sit on the antique seawall
alone
drawing in the fresh sea air
the gulls float overhead
the waves rhythm lap
I have breakfast with God.
Moon Beach, Okinawa
1965
By Fred Shira
Waves rhythm lap
Against ancient Chinese placed rocks.
Gulls float static overhead.
The sea smell drifts in and out
cleansing the olfactory memory of
dead bodies in
black bags lined up and firewood stacked
on the sun heated tarmac
where wounds rot and stomachs swell
and death smells leak through zippered teeth.
But here strewn along the cool beach sand
like a Dali painting lay
the remnants of last night’s Saki revelry
sleeping youth taut bodies
airman, soldiers, sailors
all too young to be asked
what they are being asked to do.
But then what is the right age
to die?
This morning
with my knife and a pineapple
bought for just a quarter
I sit on the antique seawall
alone
drawing in the fresh sea air
the gulls float overhead
the waves rhythm lap
I have breakfast with God.
Sterling Brown Has Come To Town
Sterling Brown has come to town.
It’s up to 125th street depot
to catch the “A” Train Express,
tonight we’re goin’ way on down
Sterling Brown has come to town
Jamb packed jiggling side to side
back and forth in sardine rhythm
iron wheels clackin’ round and round
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Christmas winter riders on and off
collars tight and wool scarves donned
outside snow comes falling down
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Stop at twelfth’s street corner diner
big black coffee hand warm steaming
two big cookies fresh and round
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Then on to Parson’s big warm hall
shed sweaters, coats, and all
shake hands, “Hello”, all around
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Up on the stage sat a black man
paying little mind to the speaker,
“Everyone let’s clap our hands all ‘round”
Sterling Brown had come to town.
He slowly walked up to the mic
and began to read aloud
about the strong men onward bound.
Sterling Brown had come to town.
He read about Ole’ Scrappy
and how Moll’s slippers made her happy
earning with her body down
Sterling Brown had come to town.
He read until he grew weary then moved to sit a spell;
he told about Aunt Biddy’s rocking chair
and how Albert’s mules were brown
Sterling Brown had come to town.
Of all the poets that I have heard
it’s that cold December village night,
I hold in rich renown
when Sterling Brown came to town.
It’s up to 125th street depot
to catch the “A” Train Express,
tonight we’re goin’ way on down
Sterling Brown has come to town
Jamb packed jiggling side to side
back and forth in sardine rhythm
iron wheels clackin’ round and round
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Christmas winter riders on and off
collars tight and wool scarves donned
outside snow comes falling down
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Stop at twelfth’s street corner diner
big black coffee hand warm steaming
two big cookies fresh and round
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Then on to Parson’s big warm hall
shed sweaters, coats, and all
shake hands, “Hello”, all around
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Up on the stage sat a black man
paying little mind to the speaker,
“Everyone let’s clap our hands all ‘round”
Sterling Brown had come to town.
He slowly walked up to the mic
and began to read aloud
about the strong men onward bound.
Sterling Brown had come to town.
He read about Ole’ Scrappy
and how Moll’s slippers made her happy
earning with her body down
Sterling Brown had come to town.
He read until he grew weary then moved to sit a spell;
he told about Aunt Biddy’s rocking chair
and how Albert’s mules were brown
Sterling Brown had come to town.
Of all the poets that I have heard
it’s that cold December village night,
I hold in rich renown
when Sterling Brown came to town.
Morning at LaFayette Square
Morning at LaFayette Square
By Fred Shira
Hey You!
Lying naked cold on the century old sidewalk blankly staring upward into the sky
of the city morning light with your shriveled man-parts showing while your wino brothers hover close to the barrel of burning city wastes wearing the clothes they pulled from your body drinking your share of the wine, ?
Whose child are you?
Did you not suckle at your mother’s breast
taking in the life fluid that was to make you into the body destined for Potter’s Field
where only a very long number will mark your place in history?
Did not a second grade teacher scold you for not making your letters world ready
to tell your story of past, future, never will be, never was?
Did not some girl named Betty, or Martha called Marti, or Sally allow you, show you,
surprise you to find that thirteen year old girl breasts cup perfectly in a
thirteen year old boy hand?
Did not some old queer confuse you when his adult authority hand tried to touch
your fifteen year old boy parts and you being secretly aroused?
Did not Betty, or Martha called Marti, or Sally cry with sad happiness after you
made clumsy boy girl love in the back seat of your father’s car with you fearing
that the love smell would not go away?
Did not you know the joy fear of holding tight your diploma with your youth world
at your back and your life world at your front?
Did not you know places like Da Nang or Bien Hoa or Ia Trang where the life blood of
your generation was spilled leaving fused confusion holding together the world of
your father and the world of your son?
Did not you not leave behind a wife and family crying sadly that you were going, yet
relieved that you were gone?
Did not you not dream about building the world’s greatest building, or driving the
world’s fastest car, then making hand love while fantasizing making real love to
beautiful women only to have your dream fantasies fall short and splash
--kerplunk—rippling the last drink in the bottle?
Whose child are you that will have your obituary written on a police blotter as told
to a yellow call box while the next naked cold body seeks burning barrel wine
warmth not listening or looking or missing or even thinking about you?
Whose child are you that will take his last ride into his number only history in a
mournerless police van driven by an overweight Italian Irish Black Polish police
driver who will go home to Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx and eat dinner while
watching Hollywood Squares?
By Fred Shira
Hey You!
Lying naked cold on the century old sidewalk blankly staring upward into the sky
of the city morning light with your shriveled man-parts showing while your wino brothers hover close to the barrel of burning city wastes wearing the clothes they pulled from your body drinking your share of the wine, ?
Whose child are you?
Did you not suckle at your mother’s breast
taking in the life fluid that was to make you into the body destined for Potter’s Field
where only a very long number will mark your place in history?
Did not a second grade teacher scold you for not making your letters world ready
to tell your story of past, future, never will be, never was?
Did not some girl named Betty, or Martha called Marti, or Sally allow you, show you,
surprise you to find that thirteen year old girl breasts cup perfectly in a
thirteen year old boy hand?
Did not some old queer confuse you when his adult authority hand tried to touch
your fifteen year old boy parts and you being secretly aroused?
Did not Betty, or Martha called Marti, or Sally cry with sad happiness after you
made clumsy boy girl love in the back seat of your father’s car with you fearing
that the love smell would not go away?
Did not you know the joy fear of holding tight your diploma with your youth world
at your back and your life world at your front?
Did not you know places like Da Nang or Bien Hoa or Ia Trang where the life blood of
your generation was spilled leaving fused confusion holding together the world of
your father and the world of your son?
Did not you not leave behind a wife and family crying sadly that you were going, yet
relieved that you were gone?
Did not you not dream about building the world’s greatest building, or driving the
world’s fastest car, then making hand love while fantasizing making real love to
beautiful women only to have your dream fantasies fall short and splash
--kerplunk—rippling the last drink in the bottle?
Whose child are you that will have your obituary written on a police blotter as told
to a yellow call box while the next naked cold body seeks burning barrel wine
warmth not listening or looking or missing or even thinking about you?
Whose child are you that will take his last ride into his number only history in a
mournerless police van driven by an overweight Italian Irish Black Polish police
driver who will go home to Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx and eat dinner while
watching Hollywood Squares?
Memories of 9-11
Memories of 9/11
By Fred Shira
Focused eyes screen glued
as a moving object glides into North Tower.
Flame ball burst.
Discecting—halving—splitting
top from bottom.
My eyes watched
My soul screamed
“The horror. The horror.”
The screen didn’t show
what I knew was real.
My brothers and sisters
were dying
being vaporized
in a moment stood still.
The camera swung
as two people stepped to the proscenium
holding lovers’ hands
forced to decide
the better way to die.
No one should have to choose
between
being immolated or
being pavement shattered.
Looking straight at me
pleading for help
All I could do was watch
with clouded eyes
holding my useless pen
as they jumped.
September 2009
By Fred Shira
Focused eyes screen glued
as a moving object glides into North Tower.
Flame ball burst.
Discecting—halving—splitting
top from bottom.
My eyes watched
My soul screamed
“The horror. The horror.”
The screen didn’t show
what I knew was real.
My brothers and sisters
were dying
being vaporized
in a moment stood still.
The camera swung
as two people stepped to the proscenium
holding lovers’ hands
forced to decide
the better way to die.
No one should have to choose
between
being immolated or
being pavement shattered.
Looking straight at me
pleading for help
All I could do was watch
with clouded eyes
holding my useless pen
as they jumped.
September 2009
Lunch at Gleason's Gym
Lunch at Gleasons’s Gym
It’s first across Seventh Avenue.
Pick-up a capicola and swiss on white
Mayo and lettuce—tomatoes make it too soggy
Oh’ and a Dr. Browns Crème Soda
Then back across Seventh Avenue
Waiting for no lights
Watching for Kamicazi cabs
Dodging torpedo bicycle messengers.
It’s midway to Eighth Avenue.
On Thirtieth Street
Just four blocks below Madison Square Gardens,
New Yorkers just call it “The Gardens”.
New Yorkers disdain out-of-towners
Those people standing on the curb
When the light says, “Don’t Walk”
Gleason’s is not one of your
Stainless steel
Glitter lighted
Muszac playing,
Deodorized,
Suburban gyms where
Shapely women work out
In loose fitting
Color coordinated
Designer exercise suits
And not so shapely women
Parade around
In tight,
Non-cellulite containing
Spandex leotards.
No, Gleason’s is an old time fight gym
With photos of past pugilists
Like Jake “The Bronx Bull” LaMotta
And Joe Frazier and
some even unknown to Ring Magazine
Covering the walls
But not hiding the peeling paint
Where men go to learn to beat up other men.
And, when they know how to inflict pain
By the rules of the Marquis of Queensbury
They go to up the street to “The Gardens”
To help fill the pre-fight card
Bringing the ticket payers to a
Bloodlust, adrenalin, crescendo
Before the main event.
Gleason’s is about escape
For the would be
Macho Camochos,
Sugar Rays,
and Muhammad Alis
A way out of some shithole in
the south Bronx,
Bed Sty,
Jersey city.
Puerto Rican, Black, Italian, Polish
Hardworking office cleaning
Mothers give crumpled up dollars
Each week
To help future
Rocky Marcianos,
Hector De la Hoyas,
Cassias Clays
Down the road to the Big Time
All the while the old men sit at ringside
Wearing brown 1950’s fedoras
And smoke chew big cigars
Talking about the old days
“If I could just find one kid
With hands like Sugar Ray Robinson
And feet like Sugar Ray Leonard.”
Gleason’s is about
Sweating men,
Cigar smoke,
Cheap disinfectant
The pop and rhythm of leather on leather
And leather on flesh.
It’s about watching young men
Spar, punch, duck, dance
Perfect skill as old as man
It’s about learning the feel of real pain
Of a well placed left job.
It’s about the taste of
Capacola and swiss on white
With mayo and lettuce,
Tomatoes make it too soggy.
Oh, and a Dr. Brown’s Crème Soda
Then back to work
It’s first across Seventh Avenue.
Pick-up a capicola and swiss on white
Mayo and lettuce—tomatoes make it too soggy
Oh’ and a Dr. Browns Crème Soda
Then back across Seventh Avenue
Waiting for no lights
Watching for Kamicazi cabs
Dodging torpedo bicycle messengers.
It’s midway to Eighth Avenue.
On Thirtieth Street
Just four blocks below Madison Square Gardens,
New Yorkers just call it “The Gardens”.
New Yorkers disdain out-of-towners
Those people standing on the curb
When the light says, “Don’t Walk”
Gleason’s is not one of your
Stainless steel
Glitter lighted
Muszac playing,
Deodorized,
Suburban gyms where
Shapely women work out
In loose fitting
Color coordinated
Designer exercise suits
And not so shapely women
Parade around
In tight,
Non-cellulite containing
Spandex leotards.
No, Gleason’s is an old time fight gym
With photos of past pugilists
Like Jake “The Bronx Bull” LaMotta
And Joe Frazier and
some even unknown to Ring Magazine
Covering the walls
But not hiding the peeling paint
Where men go to learn to beat up other men.
And, when they know how to inflict pain
By the rules of the Marquis of Queensbury
They go to up the street to “The Gardens”
To help fill the pre-fight card
Bringing the ticket payers to a
Bloodlust, adrenalin, crescendo
Before the main event.
Gleason’s is about escape
For the would be
Macho Camochos,
Sugar Rays,
and Muhammad Alis
A way out of some shithole in
the south Bronx,
Bed Sty,
Jersey city.
Puerto Rican, Black, Italian, Polish
Hardworking office cleaning
Mothers give crumpled up dollars
Each week
To help future
Rocky Marcianos,
Hector De la Hoyas,
Cassias Clays
Down the road to the Big Time
All the while the old men sit at ringside
Wearing brown 1950’s fedoras
And smoke chew big cigars
Talking about the old days
“If I could just find one kid
With hands like Sugar Ray Robinson
And feet like Sugar Ray Leonard.”
Gleason’s is about
Sweating men,
Cigar smoke,
Cheap disinfectant
The pop and rhythm of leather on leather
And leather on flesh.
It’s about watching young men
Spar, punch, duck, dance
Perfect skill as old as man
It’s about learning the feel of real pain
Of a well placed left job.
It’s about the taste of
Capacola and swiss on white
With mayo and lettuce,
Tomatoes make it too soggy.
Oh, and a Dr. Brown’s Crème Soda
Then back to work
Lazarus Returns
Lazarus Returns
A play in one clash
The curtain opens on a bear stage with Jesus and Martha standing mid-stage. They are
not talking but both looking towards stage left.
A flash then smoke from stage left. Lazarus steps from the smoke coughing.
Lazarus: What. What is this?
(He looks around)
Jesus: I have brought you back from the dead, my son.
Martha: Oh! Thank you Lord for bringing my brother back.
(She kneels kissing Jesus’ hand)
Jesus: It is a reward for a good Christian woman.
Lazarus: Wait a minute! You brought me here just because she asked you to?
Jesus: Yes, my son.
(He takes Martha’s had helping her stand)
Lazarus: Nobody ask me if I wanted to come back. I was happy right where I was.
Martha: I just thought you would want to come back and be with us.
Lazarus: Yeah Right. The only time you ever wanted me to be around is when you
wanted some money. Well, guess what, I have been dead, and I don’t
have a single denari.
Look I spent my whole life, all sixty couple years of it, being good. Always
denying myself a lot of the real fun things, like hard liquor and fast women
just so I could go to heaven.
Well, I finally made it, and it was nice. You’re never hungry. You’re never
tired. All day long you just sit around and visit with folks. It’s so nice.
But here I am thanks to you two. I have to work my fingers to the bone
just to get a bowl of grisly sheep meat and gruel. It’s hot. It’s dry, and I
have to wear scratchy old clothes all the time. And what’s worse is I know
for sure how nice heaven is, so I have to be extra good this time to make sure
I get back.
So, tell me again just how lucky I am to be back!
(He stomps off stage right)
A play in one clash
The curtain opens on a bear stage with Jesus and Martha standing mid-stage. They are
not talking but both looking towards stage left.
A flash then smoke from stage left. Lazarus steps from the smoke coughing.
Lazarus: What. What is this?
(He looks around)
Jesus: I have brought you back from the dead, my son.
Martha: Oh! Thank you Lord for bringing my brother back.
(She kneels kissing Jesus’ hand)
Jesus: It is a reward for a good Christian woman.
Lazarus: Wait a minute! You brought me here just because she asked you to?
Jesus: Yes, my son.
(He takes Martha’s had helping her stand)
Lazarus: Nobody ask me if I wanted to come back. I was happy right where I was.
Martha: I just thought you would want to come back and be with us.
Lazarus: Yeah Right. The only time you ever wanted me to be around is when you
wanted some money. Well, guess what, I have been dead, and I don’t
have a single denari.
Look I spent my whole life, all sixty couple years of it, being good. Always
denying myself a lot of the real fun things, like hard liquor and fast women
just so I could go to heaven.
Well, I finally made it, and it was nice. You’re never hungry. You’re never
tired. All day long you just sit around and visit with folks. It’s so nice.
But here I am thanks to you two. I have to work my fingers to the bone
just to get a bowl of grisly sheep meat and gruel. It’s hot. It’s dry, and I
have to wear scratchy old clothes all the time. And what’s worse is I know
for sure how nice heaven is, so I have to be extra good this time to make sure
I get back.
So, tell me again just how lucky I am to be back!
(He stomps off stage right)
Jack at 13
For Jack at age 13
There are so many things
I need to tell you
about ambushes
and perils
about dangers
and things that will block
your quest
stop your search
lessons I have learned
falls I have taken
mountains I have climbed
only to look out and see
another mountain that needs climbing.
You need to know about
crevices that can swallow you
pot holes that can wreck you
big uglies that lurk behind bushes.
But,
The best advice I can give you is
life is too beautiful
and exciting
and filled with adventure
to listen to me.
There are so many things
I need to tell you
about ambushes
and perils
about dangers
and things that will block
your quest
stop your search
lessons I have learned
falls I have taken
mountains I have climbed
only to look out and see
another mountain that needs climbing.
You need to know about
crevices that can swallow you
pot holes that can wreck you
big uglies that lurk behind bushes.
But,
The best advice I can give you is
life is too beautiful
and exciting
and filled with adventure
to listen to me.
Gate Two Street
Gate Two Street
Koza, Okinawa
1965
Neon signs
Red,
Blue,
Green,
Yellow,
Colors burst, carnival like, on
olive drab, government issued
homespun retinas.
At each step, sultry doors whisper
“Come into my parlor, Farmboy”
From pawn shops, tailor shops,
wine shops, whore shops,
“Yankee dollar welcome here”
Saloon Kinbashi
Club Manhattan
Uptown Club
this club, that club
Welcome all—
white soldiers
white sailors,
white airmen,
Blacks walk on by
to Alabama, Mississippi like
bars and joints and Black Shacks
on Sukiran Highway.
Just like at home.
Everybody plays and everybody pays.
Heard once—heard a hundred times
“Hey, GI, you want short time?
I takesan horny.”
The smell taste of Orion beer,
reaches out of open doors
like a gossamer aromatic finger
siren beckoning:
“The magic is in here.
Just for special you”.
A young marine stops
in front of a pawn shop
and sadly looks at a pawn ticket
willed to him by a friend.
Koza, Okinawa
1965
Neon signs
Red,
Blue,
Green,
Yellow,
Colors burst, carnival like, on
olive drab, government issued
homespun retinas.
At each step, sultry doors whisper
“Come into my parlor, Farmboy”
From pawn shops, tailor shops,
wine shops, whore shops,
“Yankee dollar welcome here”
Saloon Kinbashi
Club Manhattan
Uptown Club
this club, that club
Welcome all—
white soldiers
white sailors,
white airmen,
Blacks walk on by
to Alabama, Mississippi like
bars and joints and Black Shacks
on Sukiran Highway.
Just like at home.
Everybody plays and everybody pays.
Heard once—heard a hundred times
“Hey, GI, you want short time?
I takesan horny.”
The smell taste of Orion beer,
reaches out of open doors
like a gossamer aromatic finger
siren beckoning:
“The magic is in here.
Just for special you”.
A young marine stops
in front of a pawn shop
and sadly looks at a pawn ticket
willed to him by a friend.
For Richard
For Richard
My lost friend
Was I too straight,
while you were standing
close to the open closet door?
Did I make you afraid
to step out
to shed away
the protective secret
you clung to so tightly
denying me of knowing
the true you?
My lost friend
Was I too straight,
while you were standing
close to the open closet door?
Did I make you afraid
to step out
to shed away
the protective secret
you clung to so tightly
denying me of knowing
the true you?
Deresurrection
Deresurrection
Today, I may deresurrect myself.
Having been resurrected from the ignorance of my past
Resurrection brings too many questions.
Martha, please mind your own business,
maybe Lazarus was content.
Is the Pale Horse, friend or foe?
Is there a time when selfishness is king?
Should a single pitch bring low poor Casey,
and cause such sorrow in Muddville?
Should not our life standards expand
the strictures of our fathers?
Why should youth be so revered
and wisdom bid so cheaply?
Should I fear or welcome
the muse that visits me at the strangest times?
Of these interrogatives , I have no answers.
So, today I may deresurrect myself
and go back into the ignorant darkness
where questions have easy answers.
Today, I may deresurrect myself.
Having been resurrected from the ignorance of my past
Resurrection brings too many questions.
Martha, please mind your own business,
maybe Lazarus was content.
Is the Pale Horse, friend or foe?
Is there a time when selfishness is king?
Should a single pitch bring low poor Casey,
and cause such sorrow in Muddville?
Should not our life standards expand
the strictures of our fathers?
Why should youth be so revered
and wisdom bid so cheaply?
Should I fear or welcome
the muse that visits me at the strangest times?
Of these interrogatives , I have no answers.
So, today I may deresurrect myself
and go back into the ignorant darkness
where questions have easy answers.
Death Row
Death Row
Bingo Alfred asks for books
To read himself right into hell
He has no remorse
For the woman
that he raped and killed
He thinks only of himself
Three days is all he has left
‘Till the just needle pricks his skin.
Bingo Alfred asks for books
To read himself right into hell
He has no remorse
For the woman
that he raped and killed
He thinks only of himself
Three days is all he has left
‘Till the just needle pricks his skin.
Belmont Fog
BELMONT FOG
By Fred Shira
Into the not yet burned fog
staying ahead of the big orange ball
peeking up over the eastern edge
into the coolness and mist
of the morning ground cloud
enveloped in time and place
where all things are possible
where rider and horse
becomes changeling
to oneness centaur.
into the fog he runs
reaching out as a primordial beast
going stride by stride with the wind.
He runs with Brucephalus
across Macedonian plain.
He runs with Rocinante
through the woods of Castille.
He carries great Khans
down steep Asian slopes.
He courageously mounts the fierce Cossacks
as they conquered the mighty steppes.
He knows Sitting Bull, Black Elk, and more
chasing the buffalo across the short grasses
He races with Seabiscuit and Secretariat
into America’s heart
He bounds with Arvark and Alsvid
hard at his heels.
out of the fog
back into the world
of horses and riders.
By Fred Shira
Into the not yet burned fog
staying ahead of the big orange ball
peeking up over the eastern edge
into the coolness and mist
of the morning ground cloud
enveloped in time and place
where all things are possible
where rider and horse
becomes changeling
to oneness centaur.
into the fog he runs
reaching out as a primordial beast
going stride by stride with the wind.
He runs with Brucephalus
across Macedonian plain.
He runs with Rocinante
through the woods of Castille.
He carries great Khans
down steep Asian slopes.
He courageously mounts the fierce Cossacks
as they conquered the mighty steppes.
He knows Sitting Bull, Black Elk, and more
chasing the buffalo across the short grasses
He races with Seabiscuit and Secretariat
into America’s heart
He bounds with Arvark and Alsvid
hard at his heels.
out of the fog
back into the world
of horses and riders.
A Inside Lesson
An Inside Lesson
Today Little Michael, nay Michelle.
struts his seventeen year old self
down the boulevard.
Flashing eyes under tweeked arch brows
Junebug, Snowball, Southside , all
take lustful, what would it be like notice.
But all know better.
This is Manhead’s new boy.
Nothing’s free.
A short time: two packs
Around the world: a whole carton.
“He who plays must pay”
Manhead collects and Michael does.
It’s the normal order of things.
It’s the understood, shank enforced, order of things.
And so it goes until
they find Michael just like Manhead’s old boy
Danny, nay Dannelle
hanging
like some morbid Calder creation
turning gently—first right then left
proudly wearing
his favorite old manhood confirming
number twenty-two football shirt.
The most recent graduate of the inside school where
the price of candy bars, cookies, sodas,
and biker tattoo arm protections
is learned.
But, today Little Michael, nay Michelle
struts his seventeen year old self
down the boulevard.
Today Little Michael, nay Michelle.
struts his seventeen year old self
down the boulevard.
Flashing eyes under tweeked arch brows
Junebug, Snowball, Southside , all
take lustful, what would it be like notice.
But all know better.
This is Manhead’s new boy.
Nothing’s free.
A short time: two packs
Around the world: a whole carton.
“He who plays must pay”
Manhead collects and Michael does.
It’s the normal order of things.
It’s the understood, shank enforced, order of things.
And so it goes until
they find Michael just like Manhead’s old boy
Danny, nay Dannelle
hanging
like some morbid Calder creation
turning gently—first right then left
proudly wearing
his favorite old manhood confirming
number twenty-two football shirt.
The most recent graduate of the inside school where
the price of candy bars, cookies, sodas,
and biker tattoo arm protections
is learned.
But, today Little Michael, nay Michelle
struts his seventeen year old self
down the boulevard.
A Self Finale of a Destiny Not Seized
A Self Finale of a Destiny Not Seized
Christ, I missed myself
whoever I was supposed to be
the guy with all the potential
or so it was said
but the same guy who cowered
scared rabbit all his life afraid
afraid, afraid…of what?
It was all there for the picking
just like an apple
round and sweet
Had I the courage of Eve
I would not have missed myself.
Christ, I missed myself
whoever I was supposed to be
the guy with all the potential
or so it was said
but the same guy who cowered
scared rabbit all his life afraid
afraid, afraid…of what?
It was all there for the picking
just like an apple
round and sweet
Had I the courage of Eve
I would not have missed myself.
A Couple for Mikey
A COUPLE FOR MIKEY
MY SOME TIME MUSE
for Miguel Piñero
The line:
“Black woman with the blond wig on”
haunts my conscious mind
like a song lyric that will not
go away.
Sometimes I too want
to come back as a blond
and have my ashes
scattered on the Lower East Side
There is no truth stasis.
Keats was off the mark.
Had he just walked
The Alphabet Streets or
stood on the corner of Bowery and Delancy
or even traveled just a few blocks
east of the Apollo,
then he would have known that
the urn is just big jar.
If truth beauty and beauty truth
then maybe some of our best minds
would not have to cook up
a riparian buffer in a dirty spoon
to keep the truth pain away
to save their own life stream.
MY SOME TIME MUSE
for Miguel Piñero
The line:
“Black woman with the blond wig on”
haunts my conscious mind
like a song lyric that will not
go away.
Sometimes I too want
to come back as a blond
and have my ashes
scattered on the Lower East Side
There is no truth stasis.
Keats was off the mark.
Had he just walked
The Alphabet Streets or
stood on the corner of Bowery and Delancy
or even traveled just a few blocks
east of the Apollo,
then he would have known that
the urn is just big jar.
If truth beauty and beauty truth
then maybe some of our best minds
would not have to cook up
a riparian buffer in a dirty spoon
to keep the truth pain away
to save their own life stream.
A Belmont Courtship
A Belmont Courtship
After the eighth, before the last race
just outside the LIRR gate, she sits
waiting on suitcase chair
back straight Catholic school proper.
Maybe our lady of Guadeloupe.
Her dress is quaint and new,
red poppies on summer white cotton.
Her low heel shoes shine with care.
They are not the five inch spikes
the putas, or will be putas someday,
or PR high school girls seductively wear.
She says she is waiting for Jose’
who will meet her when he finishes riding.
But, there is no Jose’ in the program today.
Just another sad story.
WAIT—this is not the end.
Pathos is wrong. My mind says:
You! Girl! Get Up!
Go back to Spanish Harlem,
or Brooklyn, or Hempstead.
Jose’ is not coming.
No Jose’ will ever come.
Go home and raise your baby,
if you expecting one.
If not, diga,
Gracias a Dios.
And, learn from this lesson.
But I stay quiet,
Sometimes it is such a shame
that we are taught
to mind our own business.
After the eighth, before the last race
just outside the LIRR gate, she sits
waiting on suitcase chair
back straight Catholic school proper.
Maybe our lady of Guadeloupe.
Her dress is quaint and new,
red poppies on summer white cotton.
Her low heel shoes shine with care.
They are not the five inch spikes
the putas, or will be putas someday,
or PR high school girls seductively wear.
She says she is waiting for Jose’
who will meet her when he finishes riding.
But, there is no Jose’ in the program today.
Just another sad story.
WAIT—this is not the end.
Pathos is wrong. My mind says:
You! Girl! Get Up!
Go back to Spanish Harlem,
or Brooklyn, or Hempstead.
Jose’ is not coming.
No Jose’ will ever come.
Go home and raise your baby,
if you expecting one.
If not, diga,
Gracias a Dios.
And, learn from this lesson.
But I stay quiet,
Sometimes it is such a shame
that we are taught
to mind our own business.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)