Real eyes see truth where the neon dies,
real lies get sold in the tourist guides.
I realize Harlem’s still beating inside,
though condos creep up and the rents multiply.
Real highs in the drums on a Saturday night,
real cries in the dark when the bills get tight.
Surreal eyes dream past the gentrified scene,
where bodegas were kingdoms and the block was a queen.
Reel lies keep playing on the subway wall,
but real ties still gather when the elders call.
I realize Harlem’s a poem, a hymn,
no matter who’s moving out or who’s moving in.
Real eyes catch the cracks in the concrete,
real lies get whispered where the landlords meet.
I realize Harlem ain’t sleeping—it fights,
its pulse in the corner, its soul in the nights.
Real highs in the jazz spilling out of a door,
real cries when the system don’t love us no more.
Reel lies keep spinning on a flashing screen,
but surreal eyes still guard the unseen.
Real ties in the roots of this sacred ground,
real wise in the stories the elders pass down.
I realize Harlem’s not fading away—
it’s stitched in my blood, it’s here to stay.
Scientists describe it as an event
In the hot paradise of Key West
Condos festivals hotels
Dancing feet under bells of lights
I’ve sung Margaritaville there
Myself
Beneath the docks
Pan fish spin in the new green pea sea
Mad somersaults
Alone
To their own kind of tambourine
Bring out your Dead
Bring out your Dead
14-foot Swordfish swish their tails
Beach themselves by the dawn of rails
Swim in the sandpaper sun’s preferable agony
A woman stands by cries and mutters
“I’m so sorry”
Reaches for his folded-over fin
Comfort to the roadside beggar
Sting Ray does the butterfly
Chops atop the ocean’s surface
Charges something unseen beating its wings
Battering the space where waves dot the sky
As if it were an archangel screaming
Stop it! Stop It!
To the Great False Prophet Anthropomorphism
Animals and plants are as human
As we
Without fingers and hands to see
All creatures speak from a conscience
Possess morals
If we’d listen from beyond our own shortcomings
And denial
The Key West fish are calling us
In plain language
Help us help us
We’re boiling to death.
All the shelves been emptied,
there are no books left about;
Both hist'ries and the words
become nothing but a shout.
Those in the old paintings
that hang, but barely displayed,
Hold the names forgotten
as places and faces fade.
The gardens are vacant
for last year's crops are long gone.
This land's now for condos
from this first day and beyond.
There will be no playgrounds,
they are pulling down the schools;
Concrete jungle's coming
as well as are private pools.
Mountains will disappear
behind the large one way glass;
Rivers are diverted,
there will be no mountain pass.
Trees come down for lumber,
grass is turned over for roads;
Then come one acre blocks
to the rich they will be sold.
If ones kept the paintings
they are rich beyond compare;
They hold a heritage,
yet so few here are aware.
Pride goes before the fall
in all of this commotion;
What's left is flattened by
the progress that's in motion.
Chicken Chuck Chiggers chose chances of Chow
Changing curly curd curiosities that happened now
Clamping clogging cleats, classifying clones of mad cow
Colorado’s colorful colonists commanding condos of wow
Crusty cramped crullers creeping in craggy crevasses so
Crispy cartooned crestfallen consonants following below
Caroling cartons carefully consternating as catfish grow
Christmas card carolers confusing craggy-topped snow.
Confusing collars commanding colorized classification
Creating confident compact colonel’s consternation
Colliding converse comparisons in curious colorization
Commanding calendars corduroy in cellophane colonization
The Phoenix Column was invented
And patented in 1862 by Samuel Reeves,
Vice President of Phoenix Iron Works.
It consisted of sections of rolled,
Flanged wrought iron, riveted together,
Creating a hollow structural column
That was lightweight, but strong.
It enabled the Phoenix Bridge Company,
An affiliate of Phoenix Iron Works,
To design structures that set world records
For vertical height and distance spanned.
They built Phoenix Column bridges, trestles, and such
All over the United States and all over the world.
Until the day they didn’t anymore.
Eventually, everything changes.
The Phoenix column was made obsolete
By the steel I-beam, which is easier,
And cheaper to manufacture.
Foreign competition took its toll.
Phoenix Bridge Company and Phoenix Iron Works
Both went out of business.
Condos now fill the space where
The open hearths and rolling mills once stood.
But the history remains.
And I consider the fact, with no small sense of irony,
That I compare myself to a Phoenix Column.
I'm lightweight and strong, but hollow inside,
And well along to being obsolete.
Santa and Dasher had a quiet talk in the glen
They discussed the elf situation, and the presents so thin.
I do not have to get paid this year, Dasher admitted.
I have condos and townhouses, and my monies well fitted.
That would not be fair, Santa told his generous reindeer.
I could not accept such charity; though your intent is clear.
The other reindeer have investments and wealth plenty I bet.
We’ll donate our salaries to help you make all toys you can get.
The elves were on board, and said pay us in cookies, not money.
Mrs. Claus said “They are wanting to do this. Let’s let them, Honey.”
Santa had forgotten how wonderful the feeling of giving can be.
Finally, he said yes, giving a healthy thanks for their generosity.
This boy must be in season,
this blaze-headed feather jack
hammering shack up condos
into swooned oaks, sautéing up fire
ants for a seductive nibble in the pulp.
You can hear him all over the island
a mating pummel; his peckered pocks
embarrass us along our saunters
such a committed pecker, this woody,
drilling wood, making mating dust
around your mailbox by the road,
out there, an exhibitionist hammering
Nessum Dorma’s into the timber,
belting away at his craft;
his hard wired love gut
to persist, and the fade out
of us jaded human shucks,
looking through our
windshields at such wide
wondering howls
in the dead of the wood.
In a small town of 800 the lonely town where children never sleep
Hardly can anyone imagine them ever being sweet
Some are bullies, some rob, steal, some brake windows
Others are found juvenile delinquents breaking into condos
Adults and political authorities
Sanctions rules and laws just for the youth minorities
These hard nosed children keep breaking them curfews
Rebellious youth with incurred huge transverse views
The disorderly town children fight and riot
No wonder these rebellious cretins are sleep and so tried
Small town of 800 this lonely town where children never obey civil laws
These Town Children Delinquents breaking juveniles
9/14/19
Sponsored by:Julia Ward
Back in the day music was good.
We enjoyed ourself no matter what part of town.
From the shotguns, to the high-rises.
The urge that instantly becomes testimonial.
Immediately we'd feel better soon as the music plays.
We'd forget everything else.
Like millions of feet echoing through our ears.
Our body reacts.
The experience of true euphoria when the music takes over.
Suddenly the load doesn't seem so heavy.
From the condos to the slums.
The mark of an era.
Going on down the road.
Nothing to do but walk.
Strut your strut.
The struggle to be free.
The stratosphere doesn't seem all so far.
The absolute rule of thumb.
Coming alive blowing out the dust,
The relationship between artist to listener.
To welcome birth.
The experience of it all.
Nothing but the road in front.
Strutting along.
Living, breathing.
To enjoy yourself no matter what part of town.
From projects to burb.
To step off the curb leave work behind.
Dance the block.
Clocking out.
Stepping to life.
Some of the best memories ever
So did the leaves shivered
at the breath of a sudden chill,
in the midst of
colorful hopes already drift
lovers fallen in the trap of illusion,
the same road awaits.
Montreal was cold and gray
and all those shops
incongruous
with spices and pungent smells
deceived us of where
we really were.
I have left you in such moldy flats
to spend the endless winter,
lone at your empty banquet
your enthusiasm
long before had vanished.
The sightseeing along
the highway
staged a melancholic show:
distant reds, yellows,
an agonizing greens
red, burgundy, into brown again.
A see-through of skeletons
the stretched trees implored
slowly sinking into apparent death.
I now look at the dense black water
of the ocean
washing needles ashore
while the unrelenting joy
of a clear day
stands behind newly built
outstanding condos waiting.
The day you left
My fall didn't take long
I still blame you
For all that went wrong
And as I occupy
This sofa of crumbs
l've crowned myself
The king of bums
Because with you gone
Nashville forgot about me
I walk these streets
Looking for pizza and beer
But so much is gone
And the only thing here
Is a hipster with hotsauce
In his beard
From a designer chicken
That some investor reared
Because with you gone
Nashville forgot about me
I walk past drunks on bicycles
Painting the town
And past faux modern condos
That would make Johnny frown
And these sanitized bars
Where tourist go to drink
Would make George
Sober up and think
Because with you gone
Nashville forgot about me
I guess we were the past
Two outlaws in crime
We stole each others hearts
And past loves prime
But I never thought you'd go
And leave me here alone
Slowly wasting away
Like designer chicken pulled from the bone
Because with you gone
Nashville forgot about me
My girl and I, we have a thing
We do when we’re driving along,
If we come by a vacant house on the road,
We explore with a beautiful song.
Our song has no words, not a single verse,
Nothing that’s read from a sheet.
Our song is an emotional done with ourselves,
By keeping a primal beat.
The sheds, the shack, the condos and flats
All utilized in that small moment of truth,
Utilized and loved by both of our hearts,
Drinking from the fountain of youth.
I wish every fella had a woman like mine,
a woman who is supremely confident
She builds the condos,
and she collects the rent
My baby is a real go-getter,
she knows how to take care of her business
My lady is a home run hitter,
move pieces around like she's playing chess
This woman gets up before the sun does;
grab her a taste of
early morning love,
and a latte
With brief and portfolio in hand,
you better get out of her way
This lady is a fast Ferrari go-getter,
don't try to play her like a wet bimbo dress
This woman ain't no butt-on-hands sitter
She can turn on the charm with ease, using feminine finesse
Baby can outfox the best,
lady can induce cardiac arrest
Always keep her cards close to the chest
She's a live wire go-getter,
has the sparks flying wherever she goes
My woman is a purring love machine,
and every single guy need to marry one of those
When dark clouds collide and
thunder erupts in shaken stares,
rains fall on unrelenting sorrows
along bramble thorn threads,
screaming leaves crash
into a frozen ground
of broken branches
and disgraced smiles . . .
as cardboard condos
dot the litter strewn landscape
and graffiti drips
in tobacco stained puddles
at the feet of those
standing in an endless line
for bits and scraps
of the life they once knew . . .
while sons and daughters
face the monsters drugged
by beliefs conjured
on sand blasted battlefields
and bibles of their own deciphering,
bridging the elongated gaps
between lies and promises by those
disguised in designer pantsuits
with fingers crossed
behind their backs . . .
and children have secrets thrust
upon them through filthy fingernails
hiding under bed frames
of rusted iron and disgusting touches,
silenced by the horror
of squeaking hinges
and foot steps in the hall,
crying for mothers who don’t believe . . .
the tears of a poet will be revealed,
bleeding through the page
So once again, as I often do,
I sit and ponder on the loftiness of Man.
Great cities he has built -
Great are the rising condos -
Middle-finger pointing
Structures scraping the serene sky.
Great bridges spanning greater expanses
Deep tunnels through rock
And submarine mass.
Great thundering trains
Or even silently speeding bullet ones.
Great is the power
Of the drills in the earth
Bringing up the essence
To do even greater things!
Lofty, indeed, is Man
Who cares not a whit
For the rape of the land.
So Great is He that
Great plans to relocate ex-Terra are afoot.
But when the golden-egg laying goose
Is raped unto death,
Where lies the Greatness?
How lofty is Man?
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