Wonder Bread and Klingons

We grew up in a quiet town surrounded by four lakes;
sometimes we'd go hiking and swimming at the fourth lake,
since it was a short walk from the railroad tracks,
halfway between my house
and my cousin Ralph’s
just before the town dump.

Mid summer
the urge to explore
strange new trails became strong,
Captain Kirk and
Mr. Spock were my heroes.
Ralph and I would
set our phazers on stun
and dare to encounter
alien life forms.
it was quiet
except for the odd branch
falling or when our shoes crunched
on a dry patch of leaves,
occasionally a snake would cross our path,
but Ralph would always arm us
with a cap gun
or a long stick with a sharp point
on one end to protect us.

The favorite part
would be lunch,
my chubby cousin
always made sure
that we had plenty to eat.
Being a skinny child,
I was more interested
in the possibility of
running into some
Romulans or Klingons
but when the food appeared
I would inhale it.

One favorite, when my Aunt ran out of bologna and cheese
was cherry koolaide accompanied by
wonder bread and white sugar sandwiches,
the grit of the white sugar
against our teeth put us into orbit
and I would lick the sugar
and let it dissolve
slowly on the tip of my tongue
after showing my
cousin,
who had an annoying habit
of teasing me
for no reason.

Sometimes I would daydream
of him falling down
and breaking a leg
and then I would have to save him
and he would be eternally grateful
and never tease me again, of course
I would have to let him lie there helpless and in pain
for a very long time before I came back,
and risk running into aliens and bears just to teach him a lesson.

The Rose

On a dusty August night in 1974 a rebel rode into the Town of Rosendale in Ulster County, New York on his 750 chopped Honda the chrome was polished and the sissy bar gleaming,

as he parked in front of The Well, where he met Billie Ghoulie, the unofficial mayor who
owned and bartended there. Billie was freakish in his top hat, black cape, and skin tight jeans
but had found his niche and calling. Billie also owned the Astoria, the only hotel in town. The Well had a good reputation and you could find well-known bands like Three Dog Night jamming to “Jeremiah was a Bullfrog” on a Saturday night.
That first night he met and befriended a man named Dirty John and his wife Sue.
Dirty John’s Everything Shop housed both him and that Honda for the next few months
as he quickly made his way through the local town
produce, squeezing and partaking of all the fresh melons
passing on the Astoria—full up for the Labor Day holiday.
Of course, she didn’t know that yet, a good girl, Cheryl was barely out of high school.
Sue had whispered about him
the way he shined like a new copper penny.
He had called her pretty lady, that first night they met
fresh from a hot bath, he didn’t know
he had swept her away
smelling that way.
Not until much later did he recall
that he had stolen
the Rose out of Rosendale.

Self-Loathing

Bruxism


that's what they called it

grinding her teeth

at night while she slept

only one of the nasty habits

she'd picked up

the main reason

she still needed

to unlock those damned doors



Her subconscious

still directing

the plot

tangled

inside a sixties B movie



protecting her

by hiding

the truth

redirecting

her thoughts

leading her

towards the light

but the dark

still beckoned

leaving a slick stain

beneath the sheets

of her memory

like unwashed skin

exuding its distinct odor

she had to find the key

she had to let go of the ring.

Defiance

How does this sound for the prologue of my new book?


She’s thought about it
way too long
anger simmering
like pasta writhing
in boiling water,
only she doesn’t soften.
Lingering in the old pot
as she plots and
plans her escape.
The final details
appearing as foam
on a briny bank.

One last thing
before she departs
into the unknown
a card
to a loved one
with
unconditional
instructions.

The Human Equation

We are a speck
 in the grand scheme
of the universe
ignorant and
full of hot air
waiting for Mars to appear in the night sky

billions of tiny pulses of energy
lowered to their least common denominator
like lightning bugs in a glass jar

Studied from space
like a lab experiment
impatient for the resolution
for a brilliant scientist
to discover the true meaning
behind the meaning

Or are we mere child’s play?

Is it all an illusion

Is our splinter of hope

Fool’s gold

Will we try to use it
to feed
the hungry
cure cancer

What is it about the moon?

Dare we recall
or is it better this way

GOD

If you do exist
have some pity
on us
we still don’t know why
we are here?

Waiting for Dawn

I can see the flushed pink
across the bay as I
wait for the glow, focused
as I envision an orange rim
cresting over white pillows
flanked by a Pirate’s
Black Pearl.
And as my
mind lusts for its
buried treasure
hidden
in the east.

Black Pearl

Aye-- that be the Pearl
Savvy Captain Jack Sparrow
at your service, mate.