I’ve a new poem on MacQueen’s Quinterly. Here it is:
would light up a room—
take the spotlit stage
and turn wake to party.
at our differences.
I learned, early on,
that all knowledge
came from books
in chalky classrooms
would have none of.
What alien universe
had hosted his birth?
a perfect pitch
for human interaction.
he made a mash of life—
enamored of girls
and gangs and guns
and stuff you smoked
His parole officer
was with us so often
a member of the family.
But, we forgave
him all that,
his easy charm
and sat back—
ready to enjoy the show.
I had two poems published by Rat’s Ass Review yesterday. Cool name, huh?
Here are the poems:
Beneath the blare and buzz of station crowd I thought, just now, I caught
that old pet name you used so long ago— to torment, to tease, and to endear.
Anxiously, I scan the faces with care— looking for?
What do we hold to in the passing of our years?
What do we fail to? By choice and reason?
Or is it just the pick of a card in a well-mixed deck?
If I had a hundred lives like this one would I remember you
in one, or nearly all? Or would I come up as empty as I do today?
By now, we gravitate to a few familiar places— today we are camped out in our local bar— dark and dank. But it’s cool, the beer is cold, and we have been coming here since we were barely legal.
It’s an odd comfort that nothing has changed in more than thirty years, the tables still etched with the names of long dead loves— hearts and arrows.
Have I told you about Marty? My old friend, a man of few words, prefers an occasional grunt to sustained conversation. And that works for me— I love to talk and the grunts are enough to convince me I’m not talking to myself
But today he is busting to tell me something. So I go on and on about the five bucks Sal owes me from a bet on the Mets and watch him twitch and try to be polite.
Finally, As I pause To drink my beer, He says— with a face I’d never seen before, “I ran into my dad Last night in the diner.