City Hall Station

Dance down the dying brick tunnels,

dance down the dark ferry wharves.

The ghost boats are watching,

pretending they're sleeping,

They're hoping you can't ever leave.

Dance down the black escalator,

dance down the grey marble aisles.

The shelves are all empty,

the help's all accusing,

and they're gonna keep you forever.

Dance down the sharp iron ribbon,

dance where you hide in the dark.

This station went out of business,

the steps are just echoes,

and nobody cares that you're there.

And the lovers

on the passing trains

are kissing in fluourescent lights

and thinking that you're just ghosts.

Christmas On The Beach

Maya strolls the beach

in a soft trance.

Slow like water,

Slow like a dream,

Slow like stars rising over the ocean.

Sun glinting copper on her hair.

Her eyes are wide open,

but she's not seeing the same world you see.

Her bare feet are kicking up little sprays of sand,

and that's strange because you swear

she's walking inches above the dunes.

She stops at the old stone circle 

in front of the light house,

her sisters are all there

standing on the stones.

She steps into the circle,

folds her hands

and whispers."Om."

She starts to unbutton her white cotton dress,

slow like a hurricane

slow like lightning.

She slips it off her shoulders

and her body becomes perfect light.

Perfect light, perfect light,

just before it turns to dust and wind.

Thanksgiving

That night you lit the candles in the rowboat, the woodfires were burning all around us. 

But you didn't care when the spray hit the flame, and the steam made us choke, and the bodies floated out of the mud.

And you're standing there, looking like 1965, silk blouse, pleated skirt. Hands folded. Eyes so hopeful.

And you're older than Buddha, but you're not yet sixteen. And you're untouched on some cold windy highland.

And I'm glad you still live here, but I still wish you'd left. Your husband was one of my idols.

And now it's Thanksgiving when people go home, if they still have a home to go home to.

So I guess I'll just love you, and hope it works out,'cos if not, ...eh!Th

Might Be The Start Of A Country Western Song

Your fingernails are all torn up

from shredding on your twelve string,

from tearing at your coffin lid,

from raking down my face.

Your eyes are dirty dark black holes,

your heart is cold and quiet,

it's all so full of grave dust,

but I can't stop loving you.

One Night In November

One night she came to me and said, "My name is Juliet. You want to worship me, don't you?

And I hated her for asking, so I told her to leave and not bother me again.

But I knew I couldn't fool her with that. She knew me way too well.

I remember that summer in Verona. The heat, the flies, the mosquitos, the friction of your blade on my throat.

The beautiful friction of your teeth on my throat....

And now I'm dying in your grave, my blade in your breast. Or is it the other way around?

If it is, please make it quick!

Day of the Dead, and the clocks turn back

The dead went back to their home tonight, glowing from candles, from photos, from favorite dinners, from calaveras. They came and helped fill the holes in our hearts that they left, when they left....

I know I'm antisocial, misanthropic. And that applies to the dead as well as the living. There are only three dead whom I really love. My grandmother, my aunt Margie, and Emily. Two of them made me what I am, the third loves me for that. 

Last night I lit candles on my altar for them. My buddha looked so good, surrounded by those flames. I laid out their favorite foods too. For Nana and Margie it was cups of tea. They both loved it so much! (Though Nana used to laugh when Margie made the tea. Far as she was concerned, if you could see the bottom of the cup it was too weak. She used to say, "That's not tea, it's dishwater!)

But for Emily it had to be ice cream. LOL no one in all history has ever loved ice cream the way she does.  Tonight it was green tea flavor, dotted with green grapes that I bought from FoodKick this morning.

And she's reading over my shoulder as I type this, and she's laughing. Her smile, her laugh, makes me feel like this whole universe might just be worthwhile. She's wearing brown corduroy jeans and an oversize green sweatshirt. Her ponytail is draped over her right shoulder, her tortoise shell glasses make her brown eyes look even bigger than they are.

I'm a lucky man!

Thank you, Nana, for teaching me how to forgive. Thank you Margie, for teaching me how to move on.  Thank you Emily, for showing me the joy in this universe. Gonna hug you so tight when we fall asleep tonight!

The clocks fall back at 2am. Who cares?

Some Days I'm Leonard Cohen, Some Days I'm Ralph Kramden's Ghost

Feels like it's been raining forever, the last time I saw the sun I think Shakespeare was a young man. Thought I'd ease the darkness some if I bought some new food dishes for The Skunk, doing nice things for him almost always makes me feel better. His old plastic dishes are getting ratty and there are no old china dishes. Anything breakable has a short life expectancy here.

So I went to Walmart and picked out some nice food dishes and a new water bowl for him. Taking care of him means a lot to me, means more the older he gets, because I've already decided he will be the last one. I've had cats just about all my life, but I'm too old now. When he's gone I'll have memories.

And I'm sitting here thinking about that, wishing I were sitting in that café on Rue St. Denis with you, holding your hand and looking out at the Montreal rain. Your hair is shot with rainy diamonds, your hands wrapped happily around the hot coffee mug. We were so young, and being young and free was all that mattered. I wish I'd treasured that time more.

The Skunk is curled up against my pillow in a warm soft circle, so perfectly self contained, his own little dreaming universe untouched by the rainy night. He's twitching in his sleep, I think he's dreaming about running. I hope it's a happy dream.

I hope my clumsy hands can keep his world happy, for however long we have left together. I know we've got a lot more time behind us than we do ahead, but if I use the time right I won't end up the ghost of Ralph Kramden, sitting in my bus driver uniform looking out my window at Chauncey Street in the rain, regretting.