Long City block Poems
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I was a self-admitted misanthrope
unwilling to lose or drop a case.
I often threw a rope-a-dope
just to win; I never lose face.
I worked the dark streets
for dark, and even darker, clients
while the cops walked their beats,
shadows showing giants.
As far as I was concerned,
they were all a bunch of losers.
They were bad; they’d get burned.
The lot were boozers or bruisers.
I had caught a difficult case
The man was stabbed and shot.
He deserved it; he was debase,
but the perp would be caught.
The lawyer was my client,
he was dirty; the worst he could get.
Damn, he was mighty defiant!
Still, I didn’t think he did it.
He had no motive, but also no alibi.
So why were the cops after him?
He was a jerk, but had no reason to lie.
But for him the outlook was grim.
I might have to pummel every john
on the streets to get to the truth.
It wasn’t unpleasing to use my brawn
and I was a hellava good sleuth.
I’d search every city block.
I’d find the filthy little perp.
I’d find the lowlife and knock
the truth out of the twisted twerp!
26 August 2022
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I tie the perfect noose
Pull tight on the cord
Kick the chair from underneath me
As my feet both touch the floor
I take the electric toaster
Set it on the edge of the tub
Knock it into the water
But forget to plug in the plug
Laid myself down on the train tracks
Waiting for the 9:05
Little did I know my watch had stopped
Right at a quarter till 9:00
I step out into traffic
Sure this is my last deed in life
Not knowing it was a crosswalk
And I was at a red light
I found the tallest building
On my city block
Made my way to the top floor
Where none of the windows unlocked
Never had such a hard time in life
Trying to do myself in
Apparently I need a new tactic
Apparently I need a new plan
Think I'll just go to bed
Catch me some much needed winks
Maybe when I wake up
I'll have died in my sleep
Sandy Springs is a quiet town
Not much really to be found
Except at the end of main street
A Great House you will greet
Gothic height with pointed tower
A skirt of pillars commanding power
Windows long and tightly shutter
Pale white stone in shades of butter
Bluish slate roof with chimneys six
Grand front porch and path of bricks
Trees full and saluting in line
Shading their trail with scent of pine
Balconies inviting but sadly bare
Emptiness bequeath minimum care
Stories of three basement below
Once a rich baron grandly owned
Sits by itself on a whole city block
All gates are chained and locked
Such a shame for waste of space
The Great House stares out of place
Once the very center of town life
Magnificent balls dominated nightlife
Officials were made bribes paid
Everything of importance it swayed
Now stoic silent and fading alone
Stripped of it's riches walls bone
The Great House accepts its fate
Grandly in style it deteriorates.
"I'm a conundrum. Or an enigma. I forget which," ... James A. Owen
I am a trapped absolute in an abstract
I am a trapped abstract in an absolute
I am not in a trap of inescapable odds
made nowadays between yesterday and tomorrow
voices are whispering that I am asleep
talkers are echoing that I am awake
I am certainly uncertain that my time of this wake and of that sleep is therefore limited or unlimited
countenance contours fluctuate via its reflective reaction to its immediate surroundings being viewed
manifestations are identified and their proper values are applied
this way
it establishes a greater compliment of authenticity
for as such not much
truth is a lie till one wakes from their sleep of uncertainties to make certain
hello
I was to meet somebody
I'm in the next city block
across the border
you need your passport to go across the street
or you'll miss the plane
make sure you sit in the last rower of the canoe
so that the helicopter blade does not kiss you
has a date with a steward
one of those
was a cross-blade with a gang
I will see you at the end of the Kangaroo Race
in Australia
Aussie is not in Texas
I'm already in Texas
oh that is why everybody can see you
hello or goodbye
no yes maybe so
wait go
where am I
who am I
who are they
this is north
no west
I know where I am
namaste
Aloha
Puttin’ it all together, no room for squares, ya dig/time slides into somethin’ heavy and the groovers are here/
the jazz creeper solo, struttin’ funk bumpin’, black fire lit from the inside out, Man, it was a city block of sound/
Jazz improvisation listens to the spontaneous birth of melodies, rhythms, and harmonies/
sprung in real-time, right on the edge of the bandstand/ conversation between hands, breath, horn, bass, and the jazz room club/
Dexter Gordon in the shadows, Lonnie Liston Smith whispering keys blowin' high Building solos with a logical sequence of musical phrases/
Tony Williams riding the ride symbol, snare drum popin' the infinite stone cold rhythm walk of free jazz/
Larry Young lighting up the organ like a flying meteor/ man, His atmospheric playing covers the Earth,/
Master Bebopers walk a high wire between learned language and wild grace/personal voice poking through the shared scaffold of not knowin' what is next, but just blowin' free to be jazz/, you hear it in the way a note leans on the next/carries you off into nowhere land with a drink in your hand/ Gone, baby gone like way gone/
a soul jazz funkified phrase that refuses to be clean but combines the classic language with the more " modern" sound of jazz/ A city feel, a spiritual pulse, the sense of a bigger crowd in the corner bar where the spirit lingers, and the groove does not quit/ The Real gone tenor man/ his heartbeat says yes to risk/ always balancing musical structure with the moment, plan to surprise/the old maps of chords bending to the moonlight of invention/In every touch of the keyboard, every drum hit, every horn inhale/ every smokey whale
There’s a doorway to somewhere new—yet somehow familiar/
a dialogue between memory and invention, a dance with possibility/So we ride the breaks, we breathe in the vibe of the day, we trust the moment we let the room answer back with its own echo/until the music feels like a story we’re all writing together/a chorus of names, a chorus of voices, a chorus of tomorrowThat, at the end, is jazz/
The art of balancing the learned with the alive, the safety of the chart and the danger of the spark of Jazz improvisation is always at the fingertips of the jazz masters/the moment when a crowd becomes a chorus, and the solo becomes a home."
Downtown Dayton cityscape
can be seen clearly (on a clear day)
from the grassy knoll on top
of the Woodlands cemetery.
Most of the more fancy mausoleums
face any other way though,
as if the successfully dead
had prospered and were now
disinterested in local legends.
The bones of great men and women
are restless here however,
they turn over the decades,
pull time over their skulls
like overly stuffed quilts.
They won't look now
at that once prosperous and inventive city
they are done with fame
but on a clear night
the city lights illumine
their sad spirits
as they dream of the degradation
of their once industrious history,
watch the unfolding decay of their works
one dirty, burned-out city block
at a time.
There is a grosser I often chat with, on my way from work,
a veteran with tales of the long war, and his own heroics of ferrying food to the front and
carrying the wounded on the stretcher, drenched in blood, until a nerve bomb knocked him unconscious for months.
But when the American and Israeli bombs started turning our city block into an inferno,
he rushed to a hiding but kept the store open with a sign that read, take what you like, pay later. War discount ten percent.
This is a city of courage,
a haven from fear,
a warrior city,
unreconciled to humiliation and defeat,
a sanctuary of faith,
a mosaic of independent wills to resist.
Computers computing have pinpointed here
This planet, it seems, has something to fear
I look to the skies and they’re beautiful…… now
The stars are quite static, yet I mop my brow
A spacecraft is coming; I can’t see it yet
It’s out of control, so it’s a good bet
That no chutes, no thrusters and no reverse gear
Are going to stop it from crashing so near
Gravity, might you please assuage my fear
Of this plunging artefact that cannot steer
Could it perhaps splash down in pools of mud
Or maybe come down with a fairly light ‘Thud!’
It’s them blinking Ruskies; that’s who it was
Sent that thing up and then it was lost
They sent that big firework into the air
Because, much like Everest… Venus is there
It’s coming our way, of that we are certain
Let’s hope it will head for the old iron curtain
The west has been reticent to put the boot in
Please Kosmos 4-8-2, crash down on Putin
The experts are feeding us all with the notion
That K 4-8-2 might come down in the ocean
But everyone’s gonna be in for a shock
If it crashes unhindered on some city block
So everyone, everywhere… here is the craic
Some of us may have a cross on our back
So if you look up and you see it, best run
For though it’s quite small, it weighs half a ton
Of course, every cloud has a silver trimmed edge
And whilst I shall hide behind some nearby hedge
I savour the slim chance that Putin is tremblin’
In case space should dump its old trash on the Kremlin
But if it is I who gets royally splattered
Perhaps I should be posthumously flattered
So, if its huge shadow finds me unawares
It’s been good to know you… I’ll see you ‘upstairs’…
MY STALKER SMUGGLING DRUGS WITH MY ABUSIVE EX HUSBAND OBSESSED WITH MY.LIFE I DONATED HOM TO HER I REMARRIED THE DU.MY JAMAICAN STALKERS SHOTTING AT MY HOME JEALOUS OF MY. EQ HUSBAND WHAT CREEPY DAME THIS IS SOME LIFETIME FREAK OF NATURE FATAL ATTRACTION MY GOD DUMB GIRL MY NEW HUSBAND DON'T NEED SCUM LIKE YOU SLEEPING WITH JIMS DOG WISHING YOU WERE ME WOW NO GOOD MEN IN JAMAICA OR IS IT ME YOU WANT THIS IS CREEPY YOU WANT BOTH MY HUSBANDS YOU FEEL CRAZY YET YOU REMEMBER TO STAY A CITY BLOCK AWAY FROM MY FAMILY YOU ARE A JAMAICAN TALIBAN IDENTITY FRAUD JIHAD DOMESTIC TERRORISTS HA HA HA HA THIRSTY CHICKEN FEET WEARING SCUM SHOOTING AT MY HUSBAND A POW YOU ARE SCUM MY HUSBAND WILL ALWAYS HAVE MY BACK HAND I. HAND TAKI G YOU DOWN CORRUPTION AGENTS CANNOT GIVE YOU MY IDENTITY CIRO PETER CAN'T GIVE YOU MY LIFE I KNOW YOU HAD FUN CROUCHING DOWN USING MY NAME COMMITING FRAUD UPON VETERANS AND THEIR FAMILIES YOU ARE A COCK ROACH A PALMETTO BUG HIDING THROUGH PAPER TREES PAGES LEAVES FALSIFYING DOCUMENTS BECAUSE MY ABUSIVE EX HUSBAND DUMPED YOU CIRO KICKED YOU OUT THE BACKSEAT PETER PUSHED YOU OUT THE SIDE DOOR EVEN YAGA WAS TORED OF SUPPORTING SHAINA ALAINA TEESA TONI TOWANDA SMUGGLING DRUGS YOU WILL BE EXTERMINATED SPAT WE ARE LOCKED AND LOAD TRY US AGAIN JJJJJJJJ DUMMY DRIVING A HONDA SEARCHING FOR SOMEBODY ELSES STALKER VETERANS AND THEIR WIVES LOCKED AND LOADED SHOOT AT MY HUSBAND AGAIN WE BOTH SAW YOUR ASSAULT RIFLE POINTED AT HIS CHEST YOU ARE LAUGHABLE SCUM SPAT SPAT ON JJJJJ ROACH STALKER DISABLED VETERANS A D THIER DISABLED WIFE HA HA HA YOU CIRO PETER ARE SCUM EXTORTING MY TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY CLAIM BACH OFF NO MORE HANDOUTS FOR JAMAICAN DEALERS ORGANIZED CRIME FRAUD AND WASTE
"Samsara!"
Yelled a young prophet
With one eye and a cane.
His eye was made of tightly bundled,
Tall, wet grass.
His cane the smooth, rounded
Pebbles of a Dakota stream.
His voice was the tinsel thunder of God's,
Like yours and mine
Though with this difference:
There was no more of himself.
The yellowing light of Time,
It's pulsing, churchless transubstantiation
had spun a bright and absorbing bloom within.
He was of Earth and Spirit now.
He had achieved the Great Nothing
that we all beg and sob
And clench at our mother's dress over.
He finished: "Samsara!,"
He shouted from a bodily silence
In a forest on a city block,
"Release their hearts!
For even that is not their own!
As they hear the bird's notes soar,
May they realize love's swinging door!"
He left them then, ignored,
For the trees beyond the sprawl.
The Light beyond the Wall.