paternal blues, pt. 2

my dad doesn’t understand the blues
but that’s because he’s not living it
the subtle nuances of pain and defeat
every note a scream on beat

silent fingers glide over fretted ash
nickel-plated steel does the talking
telling its tale of bad news
but my dad still doesn’t understand the blues

the weary song of a traveler
grunted through the black heart’s grasp
the shattered cries of a broken man
and my dad can never understand

sonnet

life goes by on a new york city sky
times square stands eternal in its neon
fiber optic capitalistic glow
stealing our lady’s thunder and her torch
liberty’s pride turned green with her envy
her huddled masses turned bargain shoppers
her homeless turned upper west side apart-
ment owning stock market billionaires
why talk of melting pots when the gas is off?
the only thing left boiling these days is
a subway platform in the summer heat
just another thing to complain about
as she sits there sipping her glass of wine
calling out the great new york city lie

126 E. 13th Street

The rain fell like gunfire
And I watched you duck and dodge,
Bob and weave,
Seek shelter in that drug store
Bunker across the street
Your dress, a flack jacket marred
By each water droplet wound
And your combat heels, ruined
With each daring leap across
Roadway rivers and into
The blue vinyl embrace of
A taxi idling like a sentry,
A knight in yellow armor

You surrender, admit defeat,
And let the meter run

truth

College is killing my blogging relevance. I write, but for some reason I have yet to make a post in 2008. This will change. None of you will read this.

Katie, if you read this, I apologize for all of that shit in the past. It was immature of us both and I can really see that you have grown a lot since then. I hope to think that I have, too. Thanks for all of your kind words. I didn't know how else to say this. Hopefully you will see this.

the pigeon

the pigeon lacks shame
excels in humility
eats the trash off the ground
grovels at every man's feet
shows no pride
he pecks endlessly at the asphalt
searching for one more crumb
one more to survive

a night

We cooked hot dogs on the gas stove. They crackled and popped; skins and innards charring inside the blue flame. Hot dogs and beer, we couldn't get more American. Well, maybe if it was Budweiser and not Stella Artois. I think the Hot Pockets make up for the Belgian beer. Where else do you eat Hot Pockets, hot dogs, and one dollar chicken fries? Ah college.

st. mark's church

There are six benches and four people. The cobblestones are smooth. The lights are on, illuminating the flagpole. No flag is flown tonight. The gate to the graveyard is open, but few people walk through it. Mounds of earth mark the interment of New York’s greatest men. Nobody reads their tombstones; stories forgotten to a time long since past. These men are truly dead.