THE DAY TWINKIES DIED

I left for lunch, that’s what I told them,
I really don’t eat much for lunch, maybe
stop in the Happy Wok for Dim Sum or
whatever they call that Chinese buffet.

Walk down Spring Street pick-up the NYT
only on Wednesday, Friday and Sunday.
When I finish reading the Wed and Fri
editions I drop them off to my neighbor,
Janet, who usually reminds me that she
is a college grad, I forget what school
she told me she graduated from, maybe
some obscure Teachers college somewhere
in the Mid-west.

The Sunday edition I usually finish reading
by Wednesday and give it to Don, the art
gallery owner. I drop-in on a daily basis
to kibitz and see if he has any new pieces
that I may be interested in. Don actually
sold one of my poem’s, he displays some
of my poems in the gallery, 15 bucks.

Anyway, I go into the Mexican grocery
store, I don’t believe the Mexican’s call
them bodegas so I ask the guy behind
the counter, BTW, this little grocery store
reminds me of the Italo-American store
I worked at as a teenager in Brooklyn
same smells of oily floors and fresh
vegetables.

“Hola”, I ask the guy if he sells Twinkies,
BTW, the gays also expropriated this
name for their young-set “Twinks”,
does he even know what Twinkies are?

“No senor.”

12-14-12

How insignificant my poem
in light of parents told;
their 6 year old
shot dead.

+

The flowers are dead/
cold light from winter solstice/
spring brings no re-birth.

+

TO BE A POET

I am constantly conflicted
by my radical sub-conscious
and conscious being
the tug and fog
of the real and the
perceived and how
to express one or the
other or both and how
to discover their symbiosis

write, write, write,
about that dream
nightmare, visitation, apparition,
that is dredged-up
from my dark recesses

sub-conscious you scare me
you come to me and
taunt and haunt and torment me
to reveal the unreality
of the known

see, hear, feel, taste, be,
real or not I am in that
far country.

METRO-CARTE

Turnstile turns on my
trip to Chelsea of
twenty-third street with
west side rough trade
and effeminate masculinity
and uber macho boys
with dykes and subs
in sub-culture
sub-rosa of loco
local ‘A’ train subway
outta to play and dance
and meet and die of
loneliness and faux happiness
of what happens next
of lust and love and
make-believe and don’t
leave this dive this drive
this destination

©TPuma/MMXII

CHRISTMAS SHOPPING AT THE CONSIGNMENT SHOPPE

“Feliz Navidad”, to quick smiles and
nervous laughter at lamo Spanish
uttered to ninos & ninas of brown
skin that Tanning Salon habitués
would die for and their madres
in brown and grey forsaking the
colors of their Mexican and
Honduran and Ecuadoran cultures,
or whatever ‘ans they are from
these,“Ladies of Gaudaloupe”
and their children of today
who view their parents as
yesterday and tomorrow as
new and different and translating
and having become “American”
eyeing used and donated toys
and games and stuffed animals
sold and attended-to by white
haired women with names of
Smith and Taylor who always
smile their Christian smiles and
must be viewed as “THE”
American “blanco”, white
Christian culture afar and
apart from Iglesias Catolico,
no matter, the children are
here and the memories they
will share with their children
of immigrant days
Christmas shopping at
the Consignment Shoppe.


©TPuma/XmasXII

HORIZONS

When do you know when
your journey is at its end
when they tell you it’s Cancer
when you only have one can
of Bumble Bee tuna (in oil)
and one jar of Jif peanut butter
(creamy) when they who told
you that you were destined
to be this or that and your
destiny is realized and now
they say that you are there
that you made-it and now
you must look at new horizons
at your age and re-build and
be re-born and all the other
re’s that you and they can
think of those dull-brass
years when the past
lights up the way to the future
and where they tell you the
future holds eternal light

©TPuma/MMXII

HAPPY HALLOWEEN-2012

Powerless
with no power
to get power
powerless.

No time
for line
gasoline
no time.

Sand
off-shore
in more
Sandy.

Splinters
from Boardwalk
now Boardwalk
splinters.

Wind
roof blew
tattoo
wind.

Rain
by-the-bucket
horizontal
rain.

Surf
rough
white
surf.

Tide
astro high
stay away
tide.


Waves
breaking bad
loud
waves.

Cover
run for
hide under
covers.

Trick
u-bet
poison apple
treat.

TP

HAPPY WOK

L7.
Shrimp Chow Mein
Pork Fried Rice
Wonton soup
hot tea/
Hurricane Sandy aftermath
drives me to hot lunch out
at local Chinese got power
and serving/
Pizza place across street
doing great seeing people/
Hot won Ton/Hot Tea
hits the spot/
More of those white cardboard
pizza boxes being carried out
of pizza joint/
Lines of cars backed-up
on main street waiting for gas/
as I watch out of bay window
of restaurant/
Gas station just re-opened/
Pretty boy passes by distracted/
Shrimp Chow Mein/
2 kids bicycle by no school/
My friend in Yokohama would
think this a practice drill after
having lived through Atom bombs
earthquakes tsunamis and the like/
Fortune Cookie:
“The next call may not be the last call.”
WTF!?
Inscrutable/
Lovely Chinese waitress
you know the type slim young
Oriental exotic dressed in black
pants with ankle high suede boots
very alluring/
Cheap lunch/
Sit and drink my tea contemplating
my next move and the scene
outside that I will rejoin and return
to my re powered apartment/
To see and hear of hurricane
aftermath/
Waitress thanks me/
I leave.

©TPuma/MMXII

IT's

It was there and now
it ain’t I thought I
needed it now I am
not sure if I don’t need
it why did it bother me
when it was gone and
now I don’t know
one way or the other
just that it ain’t here
nor there and I survived
and am ready to die
without it not because
it is not here or there
but because it did not
matter at all.

©TPuma/MMXII

W

Worldly-wise he was until
he wasn’t any more he was
whacked by the whores of
wanton wars whose wares
are used to whack the
worldy-wise wise guys
that wonder like wandering
poets to ponder their wisdom
and write words of what they
saw and was and
where they wandered and
wondered with whores
in wars with wares that
wasted and wounded.
Why!?

©TPuma/MMXII

MOMA

The objects perplex.
The artist’s creative.

The piece in the corner,
Modern, all chrome, plastic
and fabric.

The Machine artful
and functional.

The maintenance man
takes the object and
continues to
vacuum the floor.

©TPuma/MMXII
(inspired by A.Giordano)

RICORDATE

I know I remember you now
you thought I forgot you
how could I forget you
I loved you did you love
me you and me as one
together in all things
places and emotions
you and me only the
two of us how could
I not remember how
could I forget the days
and nights and dark
and light in bars and
bedrooms and parks.
You and I.

©TPuma/MMXII

UNTITLED

Sunrise hurts.
Dawn brings pain.
The light of dawn
binds me to the day.
I'd rather it blinded me
to the day.

My unconscious self
had me untangle
Christmas lights
all night.

TP

SENRYU 10-11-12

Boys, men, going bye
homosexual I am
excitement ensues.

LIFE

I piss
i floss
i brush
i wash
5 cups of coffee.

I watch
i dress
i leave
i drive
10 miles to go.

I stop
i go
i listen
i rant
15 gallons of gas.

I work
i write
i commute
i compute
20 minute break.

I think
i feel
i dream
i awaken.

Repeat.


©TPuma/MMXII

LINDA

Linda has post-nasal-drip.
Linda’s step-mother had post-nasal-drip.
She said.
I nodded.

Linda needs a beer.
Linda’s an alcoholic.
She said.
I agreed.

Linda takes too many pills.
Linda’s always confused.
She said.
I shrugged.

Linda found her teeth.
Linda’s always losing them.
She said.
I laughed.

When Linda
visits and vents
in the 3rd person,
I smile,mostly.

©TPuma/MMXII

DREAM SEQUENCE (?)

It’s raining
or
I’m dreaming
or
it’s raining and
I’m dreaming
or
I’m dreaming of rain.

What does the poet know?

He must feel the dream
and the rain.

I awaken
and look out the window.
It is raining
or
did I dream I looked
out the window?


©TPuma/MMXII

COLUMBUS DAY

What to do today?
Oh, I know
I will take
a very small
wooden boat
and sail across
the Atlantic Ocean.

SENRYU #13

My door is silent
only shadows in windows
Memento mori.

©TPuma/MMXII

OCTOBER

I've been drinking Pinot Noir
all this dull afternoon.
Right now I cannot see too far,
writing a poem, "what rhymes with moon?"

OK, OK, I'm in-the-bag
tho’ my poetic skills still shine.
Now, I'm not one to brag,
but, my poems are "dressed to the nines."

Happily (?), I look to October days
and bid adieu to 3 quarters past.
Shorts and flops all put away
apparel takes on a new cast.

No, no, do not leave,
stay in my poetic high.
I write this crap, because I grieve,
my summer love has said good-bye.

(c)Tpuma/MMXII

COP-CROC

Like a Crocodile
sunning on the shore.
He waits, probing for the
unwary and inattentive.
Spotted/
he slithers onto the roadway.
Flashing/
Croc smiles?
Wailing/
Croc tears?

©TPuma/MMXII

SCENT MEMORY

A candle burns
slowly
its scent permeates
the room
I lie in my bed ready
for sleep
I must douse the
candle out.

But my thoughts revolve around a
scent memory
I do not want to lose that
memory/image
I close my eyes and
dream
as scent memory drifts
into my sub conscious.

I awaken alive
to a candle that
has died.

©TPuma/MMXII

COHWOLD

I caught a cold
I know not where.

If truth be told
I kissed a sneezing Bear.

VINTAGE BASEBALL

A baseball flies from your palm.
I see you pirouette,
with graceful motions.

Mixing Balanchine and Baseball
and memories of Ballantine.

White, red and black colors
swirl in your movements.

The ball goes I know not where.
No matter.
The matter is in the act,
the performance,
the “Ballet of Baseball.”

This, this sport, this thing,
this Baseball.

©TPuma/MMXII

10th AVENUE ON A WET AFTERNOON

Onyx streets refract light
and reverberate city sounds,
to reveal in emotional thought
that dream of Oz urbanized.

NEPTUNE SPEAKS

(NASA sounds of the planets)

Neptune speaks to us
as we knew he would.
In swirling blue gusts
of cosmic winds.

Close your eyes and
dream in this “white noise.”
What visions come to your
“mind’s-eye?”

No man-made Zen chants
can equal this mystical and
mind-soothing piece.

A solar system sonata.

©TPuma/MMXII

BOYS

I watched a half dozen boys
rough-house on a lawn.
Shirtless and bare footed,
they played their version of football.
After the ball was passed
and caught (or not),
they would pile onto each other.

I recall my 12 year old self
and that same scene,
when I felt a nascent
sexual attraction for
my team mates.

I was curious,
which of these boys
would leave this game,
with awakened feelings
of more than just football
on a summer afternoon?

©T.Puma/MMXII

GUNNISON

At Gunnison Beach
I spent the day,
a beautiful place
and oh-so-Gay.

But after I had
several beers,
the beach seemed to be
crowded with Queers.

THINKING ON A WEEK-END (EASTON MTN.):

A scenic drive in the rain.
Hours of conversation.
Sleeping under the stars.
Wearing a Sarong.
A half-day of music.
Spirituality.
Surfer-boy.
Paul.
Powerful Orgasm.
Melancholia.
Nervous breakdown.
Too emotional.
Tired.
Happy.
Wet.
Miss.
Return to reality.
(there must be a poem in here somewhere???????)
Love.

ISO

Do you like flavored Vodka drinks?
Getting out on the trails?
Are you at least post-twink?
And, please don’t tip the scales.

Making love at mid-night,
sleeping under-the-stars.
Not a “Duddly-Do-Right”,
not descended from Mars.

So, call Tony Puma,
no Cougar he.
Also, please no Drama,
if so, “C’est la vie”.

Oh, one more thing to say,
be a passionate guy.
Because Tony is gay,
poetic and “I-Ty”.

*****************************

The Woods Campground/TP/MMXII

SENSE OF TOUCH

I feel your deft touch.
My mind tries to resist
the sensation, to no avail.
I submit.

Fingers, palm, hand,
move ever so lightly
over my half-slumbering
self.

Synapse awaken my
drowsy body.

From the nape of my neck
to the crack of my ass,
you travel.
I raise my hips,
craving more.
(Am I dreaming?)

Gently I am turned
on my back.
As lips, tongue, teeth
replace your hand.

A warm-wet
touch of velvet
descends on my
nipple.

As your mystical
fingers caress
my genitals,
and your finger
makes slippery
circles

I am brought
to the edge
of the precipice:
or is it a
slippery-slope
I descend?
************

PRIDE SUNDAY

Be gay at Pride;
I can only wish-well.
You have naught to hide,
as I must punch the work-bell.

A kindred soul ,in all things queer,
though physically absent,
spiritually near.

So toast to me,
I do implore.
As I cheer for thee
to the banner fore.

ODE TO ROBERT MILBY

PROLOGUE:
The ubiquitous Mr. Milby, like Figaro
in Rossini’s, Barber of Seville,
is called and pulled in many directions.
And like Figaro, leaves his patrons
shouting "BRAVO".
----------------

An impresario of Hudson Valley poetry,
whose own voice echoes through
these river canyons.

A mentor to budding poets/
a guide for veteran poets/
an exemplar of elocution.

A font of knowledge of those,
whose shoulders we stand upon.

A troubadour of Gothic lore/
a chronicler of Celtic Druids/
an All-Hallows-Eve herald.

A modern poet who reminds us
not to forget the past.

A quick smile/
a personal friend/
a professional colleague.

So, Mister Robert Milby,
we as one shout
“Bravissimo”.



©TPuma/MMXII

INTER-NOT

You log-on.
Your eyes are inanimate pixels.
You exude no masculinity.
Your language is a flat-argot.
You pose a stilted image.

I meet you in-person.
I see the sparkle in your green eyes.
I imbibe your masculinity.
I hold your hand, and know,
this is the electricity,
which I seek.

©TPuma/MMXII

COMMENCEMENT

I graduated/
shadow boxing in college/
sparring in real-world.

ASTRONOMY

We masturbated under the stars,
as 13 year olds, in Hayden Planetarium.

Sinking and slinking into cushioned seats
lights dimmed and faded out,
as dark as death could be.

Leaning back, unzipped and unafraid,
left and right arms and thighs touching.

Grabbing each other and
pumping away,
as the sky moved above
with the tempo of Holst’s “Planets”
and a masculine oration.

My friend whispers to me,
“My father said that any time I do this
one less baby is born.”

TPuma/MMXII

PANANG

I met Buddha on 82nd street
it was an fortuitous meet.
He looked down at me, with eyes,
whose color I could not see.

A smile, an enigmatic shock:
Am I being mocked?

Whose hands seem as a relaxed joint
where fingers in opposite direction point.

Can I meditate and ask why?
About an Asian love that went awry.
Show me my nature this day
that drove my Asian lover away.

You have been asked a plea:
Do you have something to say to me?
Not about love Universal,
but about love Personal.

Can you only answer this task,
with inscrutable answers, I cannot grasp.

I fear I am not ready or worthy
to decipher your wisdom earthly.

For a love, I will never forget,
and a wound not healed,
with Buddha met.

©TPuma/MMXII

POET

I.

Don’t tell me about the Poet.
I want to hear and read the Poetry.
No MFA’s or Chapbooks or self-pubs.
Let me feel your Poems.

Do not deceive with your
abstruse, abstract or obtuse words.
I need phrases and stanzas
that capture my being.

If you do not reach out to me
your poetry is irrelevant.

Let me decide if the poem is “you.”
Let me decide if the poem is “me.

Tickle me, flog me,
be my master,
be my slave.

Do something.
Don’t just word-process.

Emote with words,
to move me,
to make me love you,
to make me hate you,
to make me envy you,
to let me know you.

You the Poet
via your poetry.

II.

I want my words to reverberate
through your eyes and ears
and other senses
physical, spiritual and sensual.

How do I reach you?
How do I get to you?

I must read and listen
and observe and feel
through all my senses.

To write a word, a phrase,
a sentence, a stanza:
a poem.

My poetry is an act of love.
An obsession and a passion
and, an emotional out pouring.

Viewing the world through a prism,
bending sights and sounds and smells,
into linear sentences on paper.


III.

I see you write poetry.
I hear you read poetry.
I feel the emotion of your poetry.
I inhale the ambiance of your poetry.

Smell the roses in your garden,
let me draw-in the fragrance.

See the world through your eyes,
let me discern that in your words.

Make your sentences sing to me,
let me follow its melodic beat.

Let me fling my arms over head,
as I roller-coaster down that slide.

Let me inhabit your memories.

The pit of my stomach rumbles,
I awaken with a new awareness.

---------------------------------------------------

CINCO de MAYO-2012

Toast us with Tequila
till you can't stand.
Break out the Margharitas
on both sides of the Rio Grande.

Come celebrate the day
no matter your ethnicity.
All you need to know is "Ole"
to join this annual party.

So, I don my Sombrero
and sequined shirt.
Today I'm Mexicano
and no one gets hurt.

No trabajo Domenica
I will sleep-in.
My head afire with Sangria:
PLEASE STOP THAT DIN!

ODE TO CHUCK TRIPPI-POET

He brings a scent of spring
a sense of autumnal color.
The loneliness of a winter’s night
the conviviality of a summer BBQ.

A genial host, a genuine mentor,
and a gentle-man.
A biting wit, that pricks
the balloon of pomposity.

A poet who sings in metaphors
as narrative.
Where emotions are laid-bare
in classical form.

We listen and read,
again and again
to discern the message.

And when we understand
the poetry,
we understand the man,
and get an insight
of our own nature.

Tony Puma/MMXII

ANOTHER BIRTHDAY-2012

A Taurean born this 1st of May
3 score year to a day.

The End gets closer in this scene
(not to worry)
I am looking forward to 2013.

COUNTER INCIDENT

Pleased with herself,
she deftly dropped the earrings into her bag.

As she heads towards the exit,
I anticipate mayhem.

Bells and whistles clanging, chirping,
retail-Dicks reading rights.

Nothing.

About as exciting
as my Wonton soup.

She escapes onto 6th Avenue
via the M2 bus.

My wrist watch did not stop,
nor did it revert to counter-clockwise.

The earth did not move beneath me.

What moral or ethical question
was begged or answered?

None.

And that was that.

An incident recorded as an entry
on an inventory spread sheet.

©TPuma/MMXII

CAPE MAY SKY

The clouds and sky
mimicking the salty surf
and ocean below.

A world turned
upside-down,
that only a child
could love.

REFLEXIONS/SENRYU

One dimensional/
the looking-glass deceives me/
I am not that one.

R.B.'s HB

Happy Birthday Raphael,
swinging away.
A March rookie
with spring bells.
From T-Ball to pro,
seems like a day.

Happy Birthday Mister “B”,
I wish you more and many.
A poetic Mister Baseball, thee.
As those of our ilk like to say
“cent’ anni.”

So, keep writing of life
inside the lines,
as metaphors for our
existence.
And cherish each inning
as memory shines
through errors and strikes,
you go for the fences.

©T.Puma/MMXII

NOVA LUNA

I am the Luna Goddess
what smiles on those
misbegotten mortals.
Who always mis-read
my intentions.
Neither friend nor foe,
I hang for your amusement
and philosophy.
I am a conundrum:
Do you miss me when I am New?

©T.Puma/MMXII

D.O.B.-D.O.A.

Yeah just a hyphen.

My mother lived to about 90.
Yet it seemed like a flash.

Driving through a small town,
stopping at the only traffic light.

60 seconds and you move-on.
The town is no-more.

That was it.
All over!

Get the message?

©T.Puma/MXII

D.O.B.

I filled-in a
questionaire.
I learned that
I am three age-ranges
from the END.
Fvckn' Actuarial tables.

RHYTHM

I am enchanted by the rhythm of your being.
Walking, I know you by the rhythm of your gait.
I awaken, and out of the fog,
I feel the rhythm of your breath.
When we meet, I see the rhythm of your smile.

When you are gone
the metronome stops.

©T.Puma/MMXII

RADIO NIGHT

She would turn the lights off,
my older sister would,
as the “Inner Sanctum”
came on the radio.

You know, the “creaking door”
opening sounds.

Everyone and everything
about those nights
are gone.

©T.Puma/MMXII

THANK YOU

Arigatou! Arigatou!
Let me thank you,
once again.
That my English
cannot express
so emphatically;
Arigatou! Arigatou!

©T.Puma/MMXII

OVI

The farmer yodels,
“Free-range chickens.”

Selling jumbo brown eggs
with shells smooth as baby’s skin.

Proletariat protein
for 4 bucks.

I buy.

I walk home daydreaming:
sunny side-up,
Taylor ham,
whole wheat toast,
butter and jam.

Blindsided by a bicyclist
carton a-flyin’.
Eggs away!
Explode on pavement.

“All the king’s horses
and all the king’s men ….”

Humpty Dumpty redux.


©T.Puma/MMXI

HAIRCUT

“In this world of toil and sin,
your head gets bald
but not your chin,
Burma Shave.”


Pot-on-head style in PS 159.
“D.A.” cut on Brooklyn streets.
Army sheared me like a lamb,
(for slaughter?)

Slick and shiny I was cruising Queens Boulevard.
A casual neglect at NYU.
Over ears like John, Paul, George and Ringo.
Cut for business on Madison Avenue.

Thinning
counting hairs
on brush.


Stylists
try to make what’s left
look good.

Gray.
Short.
Shaved.

Damn you, Narcissus.



©T.Puma/MMXII

HAIKU (17)

Chinese friends a-buzz/
Dragon dances on hard-wood/
number seventeen.

©T.Puma/MMXII

AMOR VINCIT OMNIA (VIA NJ)

From Closter to Cape May
and exit to exit between.
We want to be married-gay,
and enjoy the legal scene.

“Love knows no bounds,”
and is gender neutral.
Call-off the hounds
let’s just have mutual

respect for each other
as part of our existence.
I am, after all, your brother,
so understand this insistence.

To be a couple, and post our Banns
to be a Jerseyan, full-measure.
To walk down the aisle, holding hands,
“be still my heart”, for this pleasure.

© T.Puma/MMXII

AUBADE

As I lay by your side
I am aware,
morning sunlight through
Astorian window.

Love consummated,
out of slumber, I stare,
at your face, reflected
in that golden glow.

The contours in that gleam
I want to trace,
but loathe to waken
repose ethereal.

Like being blind, my fingers
on your face,
for fear, I'm dreaming,
and this be not real.

Our bodies contrast and
compliment,
a companionship throughout
the night.
In colors, ecru and gold
pigment,
brought together in reaching
a height.

Glorious summer sun of New York,
where,
you bathe my love in your
warm glow.
But, my loves' gloss,
is now my glare,
how you do hasten me to go.

©T.Puma/MMX

J.C.

To be lost in
Jersey City
traversing
dark, empty
streets
leading nowhere.

My sense of geography
and humor
eludes me.

I blow my horn in frustration
pray for early dawn.

?Donde tunnel?
my ticket home.

TP/MMXII

VESPERS

Votive candles flicker in the apse
white flames shrouded in crimson jars.
Each one a restive soul whispering prayers
that only the saints can hear.

Mute saints, in various guises,
some glancing at the candles,
some heavenly,
seem to acknowledge
these sotto voce pleas.

As I light a candle,
for those close to me, departed:
I strain to hear their prayers,
(as though I’d be able.)

I whisper my own
in hope that my voice
would be heard.

I sit in the pew and stare
at the rows of Votives,
contemplating life,
not death.

All I can do for the dead,
is to light a candle
and give them a voice
for a brief time.


©T.Puma/MMXII

IL PESCATORE

Knives stropped sharp.
Fish with teeth like needles,
and scales like razors.

Hands ever scarred.

Blood and entrails-stained apron
worn as a uniform.

Scale encrusted boots,
looking more like fins than feet.

It’s always cold and wet.
No matter.

I can carve you a banquet,
presented in yesterday’s newspaper.


©T.Puma/MMXII

HAIKU (MOON OF TONIGHT)

Konya no tsuki/
my senses in disarray/
I await the dawn.

©T. Puma MMXII

MIHAI ANTONESCU

A moment before he was executed,
he nonchalantly tossed his fedora
behind the death-pole.

What manner of man has a concern
for his head piece when facing
a firing squad?

Was this a symbol of his disdain
for his executioners?

A cultural heritage, being polite,
when invited to a function?

Did he want to die in style?

He never said.

The coup de-grace was administered
to his bare head.

©TPuma/MMXI