two new poems

Crows Gathering Against the Grey Sky

I guess I am
the old fuck
at the dark end
of the bar.
Mourning the day
Polly Bergen died
and a time when the cuckoo
didn’t sound so hard.

I don’t recall
Patty Duke
being so smart and
so . . .hot.
Like she knew the answers
before I asked.
A Brooklyn Buddha
in pumps and a bob.

The crows are gathering
against the grey sky and
I’ll have another double.
They dropped her
after four seasons,
and the world has never
been the same.



The Dwarf of Morpheus
pulled up alongside me
at the light.

At first,
I couldn’t see the little bastard.
But I heard his deathless cackle
like cronyism, like lightening loosed
upon dry land.

“The callous heart loves harshly,”
the craggy eyes midget
conveyed like Tom Waits.

I tried to pretend
I didn’t hear him.
But he must be sitting
on yellow phone books
‘Cos now we’re almost
eye to eye.
So there was no going back.
As long
as the light
was red
I had to engage him.

“I don’t have any money.”
I said, hoping to deter him
until the green,
when I could floor it
and leave him his highway.

“I got your money.” he said,
though he didn’t look like
a banker or a senator.
He was dustier than that,
w/an amber ash
falling from his shoulders.

It was, undoubtedly,
the longest light in town.
And I awaited its epoch to pass
like I waited for world peace:
naively, though intently.

“Ain’t gonna be no world peace,”
he laughed like an all consuming fire.
And I knew he was right.
And I knew he could read my mind
and tell where I was last Tuesday.

But I couldn’t let him
see me sweat, this bantam
of dreary cognizance.
I couldn’t let him see
my right foot had gone numb
and I couldn’t feel the gas.

“All this will pass
and it won’t miss you,”
he mocked, as if I were
the outcast ancestor
written off the family charter.

“On the day after doomsday
we’ll all eat meat,” I said,
knocking him down a peg.
Beating him at
his own prophecy game
and tearing off at the light.


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