Monday, July 25, 2016

Sangre fria

Cardinal colors that bend
through a prism of dew,
post-diluvium, that omen
of joy and hidden treasure
and cute little people and
a gay ambience,
as flags and bunting and
streamers and balloons
reflect off crystal ball
spin a dizzy array of
brilliant polka-dots
as patrons stand and
converse and hold each other
and dance and yell and
greet each other in this
communal place of
convivial peace
of mind and spirit
as physical gyrations
beg for a cold beer
or a Cosmo or a
frozen Margherita.

The joys of a gay bar
on an early Sunday morning,
the crowd that awakens at
mid-night to “partee”,
live and love this life-style
of sexual bends and blends
and brands, of those who
share a gentle love of same
and seek this love, in this place.

Cardinal colors awash in crimson,
as this boisterous serenity
is shattered by chaotic sounds
of a weapon fired by hatred and
cold blood.


On the 183

“homeless vet hungry
help God bless.”

So read the 6x12 inch
greasy, creasy cardboard sign
held by this slight and
slightly disheveled baby-boomer
post-trauma Viet Vet,
or so he wants to portray
and have you believe,
pacing on a median
he waits for the light to turn RED,
and like a bull charges
with limpy, gimpy legs
to car windows
that are tinted and closed
obscuring those inside
who sit in AC comfort
on a hot South Florida
on occasion a window
glides open and an
offering is made,
an alm to this
a coin, a bill, a cigarette,
accepted with profuse
inaudible sounds
aping thank-you
and blessings bestowed
on the benefactors,
whose values compel them
to donate, maybe despite
their misgivings of the venue
and the scene that is so
common on south Florida byways,
as cars speed away on GREEN,
to their private destinations
that blows dust and whatever
onto and into the beggar’s being,
the alms merchant returns
to the median; lost in his thoughts?
and awaits the next RED light and
donors of the highway designated

©Tony Puma/MMXVI

Sunday, July 24, 2016


Clydesdales on cobblestone,
beer barrel laden wagon,
iron rim wheels and
iron shod hooves
beat a forlorn rhythm
of percussion on pavement,
as this ensemble
lumbers toward
Antonino’s speak-easy.

So long ago . . .