Footprints Deep In The Ghost Mud

Seventeen days before Christmas, already you're looking to the East, looking for the sun awakening. The ghosts here are laughing at you.

Emily looks out my window and laughs. Her train has stopped in the desert and the sand is so warm and soft. She's wearing a Calvin Klein mini and a white blouse, her hair in a ponytail, she looks like the smartest girl in the class.

She's twenty-five and she will be forever.

Earlier tonight we walked up the street in the windy cold darkness and bought some ice cream. Cherry Vanilla, and some whipped cream and sprinkles. My hands were freezing in the night wind, but it didn't seem to bother her.

Good night, night wind.

Good night, river wind.

Goodnight forever.

Some Mornings I Wish I Were A Christian

My cat is playing with his rope toy. it's his world to him. And I'm wishing it were tucked behind my ear where I could forget it even existed, in the warm and g0lden autumn sunshine over a lake hidden in the Adirondacks.

But that day we lay together in a row boat, sun-warmed, spray-cooled, while it turned from afternoon to evening, and the day wound down.

And we stepped out of the boat onto the already cooling lakeside sand, where our footprints seemed to mean so much.

And I can't wait to see your lips, in that tiny earthly smile.

Lindsey At Hammerstein

The streets are chilly and damp, but the cab is warm. Your hand in mine feels happy and strong. Your black crepe skirt creeps over your knee, and I see the driver looking in the rear view. That comes out of his tip!

Once in my apartment The Skunk takes you over as his own, his new friend. I'm warming his dinner on the stove, so in a couple of minutes he will deal with that and leave us to our own devices.

And I slip Lindsey's dvd into the player, and we watch with our arms around each other.

Then we stand up and slow dance across the way-too-small bedroom floor. Your lips aren't cold anymore, from being outside. Your mouth tastes of autumn, and the early-coming sunrise.

Blessings have died in these sandy valleys, but please don't hold that against us. Tonight we heard music that just may be immortal.

Taxi Nights

It's the thing I miss the most about climbing into an empty cab with you on a cold winter's night, opening the zipper of my jacket as the warmth of the taxi loosens the chilly grip on my hands.

Our heads and hearts were always so full of music, and for some reason that I never understood you didn't care when I leaned on my cane like some old cripple, holding onto your shoulder like an anchor to keep me from falling.

You took a sip of my water, smoothed your skirt over your knees. Damn, I wish I could be half so holy. Even Will Shakespeare understands you.

And we saw the bat fly over in the dark, and we nodded to each other. Flesh trapped in the membranes of wings, until we let it go.

And who knows any more than this? You with your wings nailed to the scoreboard?

The Difference

Ghosts are beautiful, the gorgeous reflections of what happened whenever it was most important to them, not to us. They showed themselves in lace and crinolines. They showed themselves in tuxedos and micro-skirts. They showed themselves in their best, as they saw it. They showed themselves with hands making crosses over their breasts. They showed themselves kneeling before desert gods.

It doesn't matter, they are all still beautiful. The only one who is ugly is the one who doesn't know, or worse yet, who tries to hide it.

Rockaway Beach

The last time I walked on Rockaway Beach was  thirty-something years ago, the sand warm between my toes on a warm Memorial Day night and my fiancée's hand in my own. Her sister was with us, and we all watched the night sky for meteors and comets.

What we saw was moonlight on the water, shining on the sand sculpture my friend Lily was making on the dunes. She and I knew what it meant, but that was our secret.

Jill looked at us and we made some hot air excuse, I think we fooled her. But not us. "As her face at once just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale."

Forty-Two Years

I'm not naming names, and I'm not saying where it happened, but on this day in 1974 I had the best first kiss I've ever had, or ever will have. We never stayed together for more than a few months but I still remember your daughter. You told me she was your niece but I never bought that. Why? Did you think I couldn't handle it?
I'm really sorry it ended that way. I hope you're happy, 'cos I am. Peace.

Early In The Morning

One day you wake up

and see you have more dead friends

than live ones. It sucks.

September Is A Friday Night

The sky is dark and empty, no gulls. No foot steps wasted in the Brooklyn night. September asks my business here. When I tell her, "I want to watch the sand smooth out with no human footprints," she asks me, "But won't you miss that?" I probably will, but at least there will probably be some light when I land in the ferry slip on Governor's Island, the cool autumn waves no deeper than the end of my life.

September Again

The sun disappeared again today, a little earlier. The hurricane is coming. Right now it's off  the Outer Banks, throwing water and sand at Kitty Hawk, but it will be here soon enough.

And the salt spray tastes like autumn, and the sunset is shining off the shallow water in the ferry slip on Governor's Island. You could wade there, it's only knee deep. If you don't mind trying to outrun a ferry boat.

Dead soldiers from Vermont meet their friends from Mississippi, they never realized they were friends til  it was way too late. Now the salt water washes through the bullet holes, and the blood is mixed with the salt in Buttermilk Channel.

The bodies are dried out, hauled to the cemetery, laid under stones of blue or grey. Does it matter which?

Almost The End Of August

Soon the woods will smell of burning twigs, and the ashes of a pine tree that was borne when Abraham Lincoln was president.

But in the meantime it's still warm in the afternoon, and the goldenrod wavers softly.

It reminds me of a day at Rye Playland near the end of the twentieth century, when we spent the day on the beach and the evening in the amusement park. I told Joy that if I took her there, two things would happen. First I would win her a tacky prize in the arcade. And second she would get groped in the tunnel of love. I made good on both promises.

Sorry Joy, but it's one of my favorite memories!

One Day Closer To Autumn

The air is still steamy, but there was a change in the light today. It was a little clearer, a little brighter, a little less like something seen through a muddy telescope. The air conditioner is humming again, but I was able to shut it off for about twenty four hours, til late this afternoon. The end of summer is finally in sight.

Emily likes the heat even less than I do, which always makes me laugh since she's nowhere near my bulk. She's lying on the bed wearing jean shorts and a tank top, her sandals are tucked neatly under the edge of the bed. Her hair is in a ponytail and she's wearing silver earrings shaped like sunbursts. It occurs to me that I've never seen her in shorts before, and now I wish I had!

Earlier we took a walk up Henry Street. One of the guys smoking cigarettes outside the Henry Street Ale House looked at us and smiled, offered me a high five. I was gonna ignore it, but Emily said, "Damn Jim, he's saying I'm hot! So slap him some!" I did. Cos she is!

When we got back here, with two pints of ice cream, Emily took the bowls off the shelf and began scooping. In my entire sixty seven years on this planet I have never known anyone who likes ice cream as much as Emily does.

And now she's sleeping, with an ice cream smile on her lips and the Skunk sleeping on her tummy. I love her, and I love him, and if that ain't happiness, well then, there ain't no such thing!

August 13th
My father would have been 99 today, had he not drunk himself to death at 72. He was borne on Friday the 13th, but that still doesn't excuse what he did. Hope he is paying for it now. Goodnight.
I survived you, asshole!

August is the birthday

It's the birthday of  too many people who mean less than nothing to me. Walking up and down Sixth Avenue back in the bad old days, when the hookers owned the West Side Highway and the chance for redemption lived somewhere south of The Ramrod.

My dad would swear that didn't  matter to him, but if you believe that, cover your asshole!

My so-called friend  Mindy borrowed tons of cash, GFY Whore! Yeah, the world is only six thousand years old, but where does the Bibble say you can rip off your friends?

No comment, no surprise. Do not EVER contact me again!

August Is Breathing Down Your Neck

The waves are growing cooler. Not cold, but not warm like last month, when the sun made all the difference. The sand feels gritty underfoot, and the Sun looks like it's shrinking smaller every night, in the west. Soon enough Orion will rise, and the beaches will be empty, and lonely. It all reminds me of a night more than forty years ago, when we kissed under the maple tree by the old wooden bridge over the bay, hating that when dawn came you would be gone.

And later you came back, but it didn't change anything.

The Summer Is Halfway Over

Water splashing around my knees while I walk in the coarse white sand. The sunlight and the river sparkle like filthy diamonds while the river passes all the places it knew, way back when. Like mouths full of salt water swimming over the oysters that lived here before the sand turned black with oil.
Emily is laughing reading this, she knows the cycles of time so much better than I do. She offers me a piece of watermelon on a skewer along with sweet peppers and home grown tomatoes. It tastes SO good!

Three years later on, and the river is still running down deep, where we can't see it. Put your head down under the water and hear it rush in your ears. Your hands are so cold, in the ugly river. You keep thinking that if you could only grab the pool ladder and climb out, the air would chill your body for just a minute in the autumn sun, and then you could run to your motel room and sleep. You forgot about the memories that come with that, didn't you? The feel of the cold wet rocks under your sandals, the slip of leather on granite under the cold water. The grit of the sand under your feet, calling out like a sentry on Governor's Island while the tide kisses your ankles, your knees. Oars break the water, Walt Whitman is laughing in the sun.