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.

September

The rocks are slipping
under the water, the tide
touches nobody.

February

The sound of brass playing under the river, warm notes in the cold water brushing past the bridge towers. So dark, so cold, the granite remembers the summer sun from so long ago....

The Days Are Already Getting Longer

Everything you think,
Everything you know,
Everything you think you know,
Everything you fear,
Everything you wish,
Everything you love,
Everything that breaks your heart,
Every lonely moment,
Every day you're thankful for being alive,
They're all real.
Please treat them accordingly.