murder

murder

the book

 

Crowd Noises

Crowd Noises

Crowd Noises the book

Spade meets the fatman

Spade meets the fatman

smile slash’d spade’s face.
laughter gargled through the fatman’s
mouth.
“the black bird fills the heart
with need, buries young
boys under dead leaves,
molests virgins in naked sleep,
shakes the voice that soothes the soul,
is the world spent, the word mute,
time stilled and waiting…”
outside there was a crash
both men turned. the door flew
open. the wind fell inside.
…………………….

download The Black Bird

The Maltese Falcon, one of my favourite films and books, is the core of this book. The Black Bird is about celebrity. About the self. Lost in the layers of masks, the actor, the role, the husband, the man.

 

Monica Gold

Monica Gold

I dream

an imitation

of her eyes opening

dancing in her smile.

Some women

are more beautiful

than they could possibly pretend.

……………………………….

download SOMEWHERE IN THE 1970S

A group of poems written about a woman with whom I was involved. (That sounds so detached.) I thought that we might get married in Japan. But then I hesitated. Didn’t ask her. She returned to her husband, had two kids, got divorced. I hope she has found some peace.

End of the Celebration

End of the Celebration

Long ago. In a passed life. Before the flood. Of Ivory soap commercials. When Jack Benny was still doing guest spots. When the cement was being mixed. And the bricks laid. The Berlin Wall. Before the Beatles. And the micro chiiiip. When the Russians sent a 2 headed dog around the planet. To mark its territory. I was promised happiness.

I found this promise. On the back of a soggy box of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes. My father explained happiness. As he dipped his Marguerite cigar. In the yellow. Yoke. Twins. Happiness and Paradise. And a numbered Swiss bank account. Established by an Irish Poet. Who later died of alcoholism. I remembered that promise. Made so long ago. When I met Monica. I had found happiness. No one mentioned anything about it being temporary.

Like a Buick through the Lincoln Tunnel. Thoughts passed through my head. We sat in the Hayloft. A fancy French restaurant. It was my birthday. The waiters gathered in front of our table and began singing ‘Happy Birthday’. In French. It was the specialty of the house. I could feel it. There was something. Ominous in the air.

I whispered to the soup. Monica asked if it was too hot. I pointed out that I was putting the question. Does love ever win out? Like the Christians in the coliseum. Yawning into the mouths of the lions. Gestures are a buffer against pain. She was leaving. Melancholy. Happiness’s fare…

………………………..

download SOMEWHERE IN THE 70S

I was a street poet. Talked, ranted, rhymed about the people I knew on Church Street. Everything had pace. Prose poems. And they were long. Words, thoughts, came at you from every direction. It was like the traffic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saints of Jazz

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Billie Holiday (April 7, 1915 – July 17, 1959)

With a knife. At her throat. He keeps hitting me. What can I do? Keep waiting for something to fall. Something to stop. Always another blow. Apologies and booze. Thank the dear Lord. When he’s had enough.

Floor boards creaking. With wind and with wear. Trousers slung over an easy chair. Spread those legs, girl! Was all that she heard. Didn’t care. That she was ten years old. Someone should have been there. Someone should have heard. That wretched curse and those ugly words.

And the soot would pour down her throat. From the bastards in brown trousers. Given a pillow. In The House of the Good Shepherd. Where Jesus kissed the dust off her face. Didn’t stop that itch in the night. That lament. That cry.

American pianist Alexander Kelberine. Programmed his last recital with pieces. In minor keys and melodic funereal lines. He then went home. And took. An overdose of sleeping pills. Made Billie laugh. Put the bottle of wine back on the shelf. And wondered if he had worn. His best suit. Then wrote a song. On some postcards. Of southern trees. And strange exotic fruit.

 

Hard Brush Soft Paint

A young painter finds passion, pain, love, and despair in gesso and canvas.

A Woman In The Middle Of A Crowd

A woman in her mid 40s waits in the middle of a crowd, surrounded by the backs of men’s dreams. She waits near a clock that drips. Run out of cuteness. Suffering the lack of temptation. Wallpaper peels off the button down suits of old lovers that hang in her closet. And she mixes up their laughs and their wallets. And remembers only the swollen knuckles and their politeness as they dissolve in her photo albums. She pats the couch. What happened to Fuzzy? Where did she go? Her loneliness is filled with goodness. And her emptiness echoes like a cathedral. Curling a string of pearls around her finger she bites down on her lip. If only I had been prettier.

 

Baltimore Catechism

Baltmore Catechism

When I read T. S. Eliot, I wrote like T. S. Eliot. Yet I did not how he wrote. I wanted to think like Ferlinghetti. And act like Henry Miller. I had heroes. As poets. I wanted to sing like my uncle Tom. Who wanted to sing like Hank Williams. This book of poems was written with the seriousness of youth. As if I was trying to break into a safe. Containing national secrets. And finding out that someone had been there before me.

 

Crowd Noises

Before I began to listen. In my younger days. I ranted. Invited into small spaces. Where my nose was rubbed in my words. Listened to my fellow poets. Bleed. Black. And wondered if I heard an echo. Or was everyone crazy. These were the Crowd Noises.

Read now Crowd Noises

 

Thoughts on a Stormy Night

Anger and humor. Burning like a furnace in my head. The year my mother died. Poems from my tumor.

Thoughts on a Stormy Night