Richie/183

Dead at thirty.

The RR tank-car is a marvel
of engineering with steel
configured in shapes that
mesh like Legos.

The sides of the car
are steel canvasses
to the artists who leave
imprints, larger than life,
in Comic Sans font,
six feet high.

Richie/183,
is writ large on this car.

Jack Kerouac would have
urged the artist to,
“ride the rails” himself.

But,
the artist is dead,
and how he travelled in life
is how he travels in death:

Riding the rails, vicariously,
and like death, eternally.

TP/2015
(For my nephew Richard/RIP.)

David

David/3x6

David’s rhythmic breathing/
My ten PM night-cap/
My sunrise wake-up call.

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

David/5x12

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 heart beat as we embrace spoon-like.

When you are gone, the metronome comes to a stop.


TP/4/11/15

Fireworks

Driving on Route 1 north;
Nine-PM, Fourth-of-July.
Silent sky lights flash
in my rear-view mirror.

Booms ahead and beside me,
as towns light-up America.
Roads and parking lots empty.

Exceptional America,
defying Zeus with
artificial thunder and lightning.

America where are you?

TP

Walkin' thoughts

Walkin’ is a joy.

Guilty as all get-out,
if I don’t get out.

A stranger smells like coffee
as he glides by on his bike.

I keep pace on my walk by chanting;

“The Fort Dix Boogie.”

“Yer left/yer right/yer left,right,left!
Yer had a good home but you left,
yer right,
Joanie was there when yer left,
yer right, sound off . . .”

I would substitute Jonnie
for Joanie.
“In the Army, in the Closet.”

Sweet Gatorade morphs
into salty sweat.

Soaked in the Florida morning
heat and humidity.
Goin’ home to a power-wash,
hot, tepid, cold.

Washin’ dirt and grime and sweat away,
but not my thoughts.

I dissect my walk:
Light/light/RR tracks/light.
Light/RR tracks/light/light.

Walkin’ is a bore.


TP.