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

astronomy baseball writing belief comedy comfort festivities happiness

heartbeats once acoustic

sunlit green leaves flicker over
a cincinnati restaurant patio
sunday brunch amongst contemporaries

a skyline mural
of an astronaut
looking to the stars
above our heads
downtown buildings
turning toward the sun

glistening libations
sweatily klinking together
a toast made to the ending war
fully vaccinated folks
introducing themselves as such
shaking hands
faces aglow with possibility
shoulders swaying
to kettle drum music
masks off gently
seeing smiles
for the first time in a year
our festive nature quickening
heartbeats once acoustic
have gone electric

the gentleman at the table beside us explaining
upon reserving his table
he’d requested a framed picture of Bill Murray and a congratulations card for “Jeff”
to await his party upon arrival at their table
there is no Jeff of course
restaurants who agree to accommodate his request
are how he chooses where to dine
when traveling out of town

our laughter turning on
theatre marquee lights
no one interested in food
it’s spring

the whole city has tickets to a Redlegs game

we have survived the plague
everyone is tired of eating
tired of fearing
tired of dying
yet everyone
seems ready to fuck

Americana analysis art atheism baseball writing cemeteries coffee death life literature love

black veil

we were

never married

yet somehow

i still became

his widow


baseball field in january

your absence
is an empty coffee cup
a baseball field in January
a dead cactus
an unwashed plate
the record player needle
that simply gave up

art baseball writing poetry Uncategorized writing

old goats


after 108 years of enduring a curse

the cubbies won the world series

but that’s not what made it a banner day

it was because i


to forget you

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

today is pete rose’s birthday

today is pete rose’s birthday
a few years before
he bet on baseball
a meteor turned dinosaurs into petrol
for powering cars on trips to sports stadiums
and the zoo
i mention them together
neither charlie hustle nor the ancient beasts
get proper credit
where credit is due

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

national pastime

oh my
all this

iPod listening
and tv watching

How come nobody wants to fuck anymore?

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

and the cardinals take the pennant

this is not a poem

it is a fucking gypsy curse

spun from hate
and the desiccated
heart strings of ted williams


red sox


and the cardinals take the pennant

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

confessing to the vicar of god

what a task
you’ve burdened me with

having to dance like i’m enjoying it
as you watch
masked through the glass

pretending i’m unaware you’re there

wigs, trench coats, switching booths every night
none of it’s working, baby

you’re nothing
if not a predictable animal

it’s your scent
and references
that betray you

i could spy with my little eye
and point you out from the blimp
hovering over a pirates game

i won’t look up

because in my dreams
i’m curled around you in the back seat
of a taxi cab
weeping for all we lost in the war
confessing to the vicar of god
it’s the sound of your voice
i’ve missed the most

i won’t smile at you

smiling is for pussies

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

sadism & baseball statistics

hindsight being forks through the eyes
i should have turned
on my hellish heels and ran
the moment he said
he was a red sox fan