Americana Uncategorized

American Tune

Many’s the time I’ve been mistaken
And many times confused
Yes, and I’ve often felt forsaken
And certainly misused

Oh, but I’m alright, I’m alright
I’m just weary to my bones
Still, you don’t expect to be bright and bon vivant
So far away from home, so far away from home

And I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered
I don’t have a friend who feels at ease
I don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered
Or driven to its knees

But it’s alright, it’s alright
For we lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the
Road we’re traveling on
I wonder what’s gone wrong
I can’t help it, I wonder what has gone wrong

And I dreamed I was dying
I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly
And looking back down at me
Smiled reassuringly

And I dreamed I was flying
And high up above my eyes could clearly see
The Statue of Liberty
Sailing away to sea
And I dreamed I was flying

We come on the ship they call The Mayflower
We come on the ship that sailed the moon
We come in the age’s most uncertain hours
And sing an American tune

Oh, and it’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright
You can’t be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow’s going to be another working day
And I’m trying to get some rest
That’s all I’m trying to get some rest

lyrics by Paul Simon

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01/01/11 NYC Holidays with Family

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Poof* Take MY water

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this 30th of May

even the fireworks

sound tired

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

two artists in a train station at night

with no less than a hundred other places
he could have planted himself
the well-dressed septuagenarian in the suit
sits down directly beside
my london fog
in the starkness of the 3 a.m. train station

his bones
and the wooden bench
making similar creaking noises
as he settles

“Isn’t it crazy you can only catch a train back east in this town at 3:30 in the damn morning?”

as he rifles a jacket pocket to no avail

i sigh and say,

“It is Cincinnati…notoriously late for everything.”

he nods and gives and extra suck to his throat lozenge

the sense of intrusion fading
my mind performing jubilant cartwheels
because he just said
back east
as if people actually say
back east
suddenly feeling grateful for his warmth
in the surgical sterility
of the vacuous art deco room

where it somehow manages
to be 1939

save the pay phones
ripped from their booths

wires dangling from the walnut walls
folding doors half open
glass still covered
in fingerprints
gaping victims of technology and time

other passengers hailing from the depression era
begin filing in
with too much luggage
and too many children

my eyes find a small amber feather
on the side of his exquisite olive fedora
as he asks

“Why a train? You look more like the jet set type…”

“Too afraid to fly…you?”

“Too old to drive and too poor to fly. Where you going, miss? I’m Karl.”

“All the way to Penn Station, Karl. 17 hours. My name is Alicia.”

we shake hands

“Me too. What do you do for a living, if I may?”

“I write angry poems and perform them in front of people.”

“You gonna write an angry poem about me?”

“No, but I do plan to write about those Cordovan boots you’re wearing…”

he laughs at the floor
shaking his head at my knowing

“You are a poet.”

i smile a century

“What do you do?”

“I play the trumpet.”

“You gonna play a song about me?”

“You’re damn right I am…and those heels you’re wearing…”

“You ever walked down the ramp to the platform here before? They may have been a bad choice…”

“So steep it’s like you’re going to hell. Well, tonight we can go together.”

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

trenton makes, the world takes

makesbridgeit was my fifteenth hour
headed north
on the cardinal route
a leaving delaware delirium
resting uncomfortably
in the lack of a sleeping car

back when jersey still had a shore

the train tracks were skimming us
toward a crashing nighttime death
in the black atlantic

sharks approach silently with their teeth

out the window
my eyes found
an iron bound
bridge glaring back at me
stretching the width of the garden state
wearing a red neon garter
as a sign

“Trenton makes, the world takes…”

and i knew then
all was lost

it was the september
of not wanting
to know more

poetry Short Stories Uncategorized


when i ask


i went
to such great lengths
traveling to your place in the world

the answer comes with absolution

it wasn’t
i was in love

the poet within me
just needed a reason
to ride a train into the city