THE DARK

there are things in the dark...
beautiful things,
horrific things,
all kinds of things.
i work best in the dark.
i like the flicker of a candle...
a large orange moon.
don't be afraid,
the dark can be your friend.
you may receive phantom kisses,
from dark-clad vixens.
killer babes.
feel their heat,
ah, yeah man.
it warms you in the damp, night air.
sit alone in parks after midnight.
take a pull off a whiskey bottle.
dream your night dreams.
be a street warrior...
an urban god...
a street player.
listen to the crunch of the snow,
under your feet.
it glimmers like diamonds,
under the humming street lights.
own the dark.
feel its' danger.
control it.
never yield to it.
there are things in the dark.
beautiful things.
horrific things.
embrace them,
look for them.
make the dark, your own.

WORKING MAN

I don't have time,
to worry about politics.
I have dirt underneath my fingernails.
I have to replace my sump pump.
I need to clean the slop,
that seeped into my basement,
from the last rain storm.
There are tires to be rotated.
Old flooring to be replaced.
My old house owns me.
So do my cars.
I don't hire out,
when I can fix it myself.
I'm getting too old for this crap.
But, old habits die hard.
"Suck it up old man",
I say to myself.
Work 'til you die...
just like my dad,
just like my brother.
All we have is our blue collar pride.
No whining allowed.
We carry on through...
cancer,
arthritis,
bad tickers,
bad legs, and knees.
We work through the pain.
A man has to keep his self respect.
I won't go on the government dole.
Press on, you old fool!
Hold your head high.
There just ain't enough time,
to get it all done.
Retirement, my ass.
From birth to the grave,
I'll be a working man.
That's all I am.
It's all I'll ever be.
You know what?
It's enough for me.

THE STRIPPER

she is a memory of some importance.
i saw her a few times,
and didn't think too much about her.
a guy has to be a schmuck,
to think about dating a stripper.
she like me...
i suppose.
i always gave her a nice tip.
pretty soon...
she started taking a bar stool,
next to mine,on her breaks.
we got to know each other.
she appeared to be a brunette,
but actually, after a while,
i discovered she was a strawberry blonde.
she told me other intimate things.
we started to develop a relationship.
i took her out to breakfast,
after her shift.
then i stopped seeing her.
it wasn't going to work.
a couple of years later,
i saw her in a nice club.
seems she was doing alright.
i took her out a few times,
then i "bailed" on her again.
i've known her for over ten years.
i see her sometimes.
we share a strange closeness.
a couple of years, ago...
she sent me an expensive watch.
it means a lot to me.
she is genuine.
she didn't want to change herself.
she didn't want to change me.
we endure.

DIRTY FACTORIES

I kissed my first girl,
by the dirty, factory wall.
Then I wept,
and went to Confession,
on a Saturday.
So I could be clean,
before God's eyes,
on Holy Sunday.
Then I sinned again,
and wore out my knees,
in prayerful submission...
to statues,
and black-frocked hypocricy.
Did God listen?
I kissed my next girl,
in an American car...
A "Holy Beauty", made of steel,
and soft bench seats.
I lay her down,
and enjoyed my first Epiphany.
The priesthood, disintegrated...
before my very eyes.
And so did my Sainthood...
because of heat,
and passion,
and steamed windows,
in front of dirty factories,
where urban dwellers worked,
and prayed,
for better lives...
prayers which fell,
on God's deaf ears,
as Tuxedoed men,
and Society women,
drank cocktails,
on State Street,
that Great Street.
They laughed, and loved,
and felt no guilt...
having not a care in the world.
But, I continued to pray,
in tattered jeans,
and holes in my shoes,
in decrepit churches,
near dirty factories,
where I discovered joy,
and the carnal gifts,
of working class girls.
I built more guilt,
and more submission,
to the filthy rich,
who bore no guilt,
as they broke my back,
and my spirit,
in their dirty factories...
as I finally queried...
Where are you, God?
But no answer came back to me.
Only misery.

RESPECT

i was walking down milwaukee avenue.
north side of chicago.
three punks were walking my way.
snow was on the ground.
they were drunk...
laughing, playing, being obnoxious.
i didn't like this scene.
it was late.
little traffic and no-one around.
i moved to the side,
to give them quick passage.
i gave them the right of way.
so this ball cap wearin',
pants hangin' offa his ass, kinda guy,
bumps into me...hard.
i grab him by his windpipe,
and ask him if he knows anything about:
RESPECT.
simultaneously, i pulled my hand gun,
out of my leather jacket, and pointed it...
at the other two assholes.
one of them wet his pants.
it was freezing cold outside.
my mind flashed a thought.
i wondered if his pee-pee pants,
would freeze, before he got to where he was going.
i started laughing.
these "bad boys" must have thought i was insane.
they didn't know, RESPECT.
i eased my hand off the windpipe.
i gave him a quick jab.
i broke his nose.
i told them to get on their merry way.
i shot a round, over their heads.
they ran away, crying like little girls.
RESPECT.
it's a good word.
think twice before...
you fool with an old man.

I DROVE THE BOSTON MARATHON

i never qualified.
i still had the dream.
i finished five marathons,
in my life.
but i never made it to boston...
the runners' mecca.
i owed it to myself.
i drove the boston marathon route.
my friend paul was at the wheel.
me with camcorder in hand.
i cried real tears,
at the john kelly statue...
stationed right before heartbreak hill,
and wellesly college.
this is the 20 mile mark...
where your legs turn to jello,
and the hill looms large.
i remember the fatigue...
the gut-wrenching glories,
of days past.
i saw the citgo sign,
and fenway park.
the famous elliot hotel,
on the way to the pru-center...
and the finish line.
in grand "olde" boston.
city of charm,
city of dreams,
for old marathoners,
like me.

LITTLE TREASURES

i lie in bed at night
and write;
moved by transient spirits,
i see a jumble of words.
they are pre-existing.
all ideas have been written before.
i never have had, an original thought.
i just recapitulate.
regurgitate,
other ideas...
in (hopefully), novel ways.
i am a fraud,
a magician,
a flim-flam man.
don't trust me,
or any of my words.
don't trust my thoughts,
or your own, for that matter.
be wary.
measure words carefully.
but enjoy them.
learn from them.
they are our little treasures.
i won't sell out.
i won't write for pharmaceutical companies,
ladies underwear catalogue companies,
or ad agencies.
i won't tell you what beer to drink,
or what car to drive.
words are too valuable for that twaddle.
my little treasures are transitory.
they are shape-shifters.
they are ghosts.
they travel light-years,
if my mind is in sync with my heart.
so now i finish this little verse.
my eyes are heavy with sleep...
it's only moments away.
my hopes are to dream more little treasures...
and share them with you.