It ain't all pizzas and cream

24 BARS

 

 

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There was this mean Irish taproom 
on 12th Street. During the day
there were people going in

and out. Always men. Always alone.
But at night the place seemed
oddly deserted. 

I'd drunk my money and was pretty far 
gone when I walked by. The door 
was open and a band was playing 
on a tiny stage in back:
four young college guys
banging out a twelve bar blues.

I walked in. The walls
were green. There was nobody there
but the band and the bartender. 
I climbed on stage, took out
my harmonica, and began to blow. 
It felt good being part of something.

The guitar player backed off
and let me take a solo. I played
12 bars and was just warming up
so I took another 12. I felt a hand
on my shoulder. It was the guitarist.
"That's it," he said, "you're done."

I climbed down off the stage
and looked hopefully at the bartender
for a free round. He shook his head, 
no. I walked out, the music 
still hammering at my back,
in search of a new tribe.

 

Call Me, Summer

 

 

I lower my head and rest my cheek on the hot wood
of the desk. Perhaps I am a swimmer, surfacing

between strokes for a mouthful of air. Or a trail scout, 
ear to the ground seeking the prairie's heartbeat 

in the distant thunder of hooves. It is June, a wet breeze 
sneaking through the classroom windows. 

If the teacher is speaking I no longer hear her, as one
dozing on a beach might confuse waves for wind.

The whole summer is stretched out, wide enough
to land a squadron of fighters in formation. Somewhere

far away, a bass breaks the surface of the lake to snap 
at a mosquito. And I am both the insect and the fish.

 

 

The Fool

 

 

I walk about in this oafish skin
pretending to be a man. In fact

I feel more like a bear, drunk
on blackberries gone to brandy

in the August sun. Who would
want me this way: raisin eyes

thumbed deep into this putty
head. I write my name in chalk

on the playground floor. So
when Death comes, he'll know me.

 

Dress Rehearsal

 

Strange how a summer cloudburst can stop a city

at noon. She takes the stage and at once we are all

 

supporting players. The café waiter scurrying

to clear dishes from sidewalk tables. The drunk

 

smoking in a doorway. Even the lawyers and execs

turning up the collars of their Burberry suits

 

now seem no more formidable than little boys

whose sandlot game was called in the seventh.

In the second act, a woman passes, holding a green

and pink umbrella, her hips rolling beneath

 

her dress. A delivery man runs by with a bouquet

and exits, stage right. In the third, a couple

 

of tourists hail a cab. Two nurses share a smoke

beneath the hospital marquee. There is a flash

 

of lightning, the hustle and slap of footsteps,

and then the curtain.

3 Wizards

 

In a space so narrow
alleys mock it,

so dark the night refuses
to go there alone,

three Chinese cooks
squat on milk cartons

and smoke. As I pass
they stop speaking

as if wizards who fear
eavesdroppers.

But it is not their spells
that concern me

nearly so much
as their silence.

 

Flavorwire profiles "Everyone Has a Name"

For the second time in as many days, my photo project aimed at promoting compassionate treatment of the homeless, and ulrimately at ending homelessness has been the subject of a profile piece, this one on Flavorwire.com.

Business Insider profiles "Everyone Has a Name"

Just a quick note that Business Insider has published 25 of my photos along with a brief write-up on my photo project, "Everyone Has a Name." The aim of the project is to raise awareness and to promote compassionate treatment of the homeless. Homelessness can happen to anyone--not just the addicted, the alcoholic, or the mentally ill. Disability from injury, loss of a family residence, divorce, or death of a loved one can all result in homelessmess. This project puts a name to each face and a face to each story. 

Check out the Business Insider piece HERE, and the photo series HERE.