Like a captive, I capture rapture wrapping around stakes that matter
Joan of Arc battered
Also tattered but, easily dismissive
Refracted from fractured prominent phrases people play with
Distinctly persuasive and evasive, dressed boyishly attractive, lax stature, dawning armor crafted by absence as if asked about it-
I’m drifted
Protection is principle prerequisite, when fire is lit
I sort of implore your aorta before it’s incinerated to ashes
Dethatched as a habit, with swords or hatchets crafted to singe heartstrings that attached it
While I slash slick Rick as a quick fix,
To fend for pretend pretenses or presumed tricks,
I can’t quit
Cause I hit lips against hash spliffs fashioned with dashes of passion all while rationing fireball cinnamon sips
Martyr to avoidance
I gaze at fabled dazed gossipers galvanizing grips on gritty grapevines while licking warning labels through smoke haze on blurred lines
Capably unstable
Other eyes attending scandal circles able to shout lies and rekindle handed arguments on tables with locked smiles stay boxed in
Avidly amiable
Searching for counterparts when combusted or branded
Toying with matches loses meaning when rules reseed
Those vagabonds claim love is some all end hard bent to mend what the same above can’t comprehend.
Breaking boredom, I pillage pillows with night terrors
And ardent arsonists yearn for flames that churn, turn, liquefy and learn learned thoughts and smoldered feelings
Completely complacent
Melting in one another they are completing each other like two candles tryst true at a wedding day
However later the blaze is severed, smoke sears, and charred black wick stands alone for them.
Aggressive and progressive.
As for me never pleading, fire forever fleets to streets between iron bars I built that cage in deep heat and seep dire dreams once desired
Suppose I’m a skeptic
Roasted or disconnected
Just jaded, just met you
Always over it too soon
Burnt but I’m amused.
I’m useful.

There was death and gore,

During the second world war.

Many people died in extreme violence,

Killed before they could call out to loved ones.

Young men were trained to ****,

Often against their morals and will.

So when I see your 1940s weekend -

Your 'war was fun and cosy' pretence,

Your clichéd polyester and fibre glass mockery,

Aiming to re-enact a mostly imagined happy-go-lucky camaraderie -

Forgive me for not joining in,

As I happen to feel it a cardinal sin,

To idealise and romanticise a decade,

Made up of austerity, rationing and air raids.

I've read a little social history,

The 1940s were not idyllic or crime-free,

Just as now, there were heroes and villains,

Among the soldiers and civilians.

Heroism abounded but so did black marketeering,

There were brave sacrifices but also racketeering.

City-wide black-outs were a gift,

To those who would rob and grift.

Your jolly nostalgic tribute is an annual celebration,

Celebrating your own fabrication,

Of a time when the machinations of war and a crazed ideology,

Saw the near extinction of an entire ethnic minority.

I do not wish to be a party pooper,

But don't just step into the fake shoes of a fictional trooper,

Please occasionally remove your rose-tinted glasses,

To remember that beyond your nostalgic narrative of the routines of the masses,

People lived with the daily fear,

Of the likely deaths of people they held dear.

The Baby Boomer Generation
was between 1946–1964.
Currently today between
the ages of 57 and 75.
So that would make most
of us still alive and kicking

No, two people experience,
their generation the same.
It depends upon your age
going through the experience
Facilitates our gauge.

These is what I remember along my way.
Details, I leave out the baby boomers will know what I’m talking about.
One of 8 kids I’ve seen many layers
These recollections are from many players
This memory train stops ,Ends 1979

My generation as a child;
Buying our clothes from the
Sears and Roebuck catalog
Weekend chores morning till night
Sunday church, youth fellowship group
A treat to play baseball in the street
First set of wheels a Banana Bike
with high handlebars, Ten Speed bike
We road for miles but never lost our way.
Made and played with Paper, Airplanes,
Lincoln Logs, Click Clacks and Jack’s
We dug holes to make a Mini Golf Course

I sold fruit from our many trees For lunch
money cafeteria food 4 fruits NO sac lunch,
We were resourceful, earning our own way.

The boys had a Paper Rout
The girls Babysitters. I bought my clothes, by the age of 12 with babysitting money.
And happy to doit.!NO more sister’s things
The embarrassment of hand me downs

We covered our School Books with
Brown paper, trash bags, creative Kids used
comics from the newspaper cool!
We walk to school and back, never alone

We dial a rotary phone plugged in the wall.
Dial zero for operator to connect your call
Yellow page phonebook to find numbers.
chores and homework done, before fun!
Boys collected Baseball Cards MadeCrafts

Junior High; The quarterly Shop classes
Boys Only,
Auto Shop, Wood Shop,
Electronic Shop and Plastic Shop
The boys sold what they made
for a pretty penny(expensive price)$$

Drivers Ed
In the classroom and in the Car
The schools had four Cars;
4 kids and the Instructor

Home economics
Girls Only;
learn to Sew, A-line Skirt, Gym Bags
with Embroidered Names, one freestyle project. Anything from Turning jeans into a Jean skirts. Imagination creation,
Original design Homemade crafted gifts

Cooking Class had 7 mini Kitchens
Nutritional well-balanced meals, but my favorite Cake Baking tips and techniques.
We had a lemonade Stand in the summer
Sold Fresh lemons off your fruit trees.
Baked cookies, cupcakes, and cakes as well.

Every meal was made from scratch
Feeding 10 meant more than one batch.
We ate Dinner as a Family every night
Us kids, brothers and sisters were tight
We went to Drive-in, Movies in our PJs
We got our information from Encyclopedias
We waited for the Milkman, and the Helm’s 
Whistle Blow, Diaper Services at the door.
We listened toTransistor Radio on the floor.

My Generation as a Teenager
Bellbottoms and Crop Tops” peace signs”
mini skirts, go-go boots, moccasins beehive
Hair with Flowers everywhere
Bought my First Vinyl Record

Rationing Gasoline;, odd, and even days
By The last digit of your license plate
In 1993 and again in 1997. Gas Ran Out!

Changing the TV channel with the ****
First black and white TV followed by color
FineTune the antenna, rabbit ears for clarity.
We piled in the wood panel station wagon

A Phone Booth on every corner $.10 a call.
The simplicity of it all
Until The Moral pendulum Shifted Society
The shooting of John F. Kennedy
I knows where I was the day it happened
The shooting of Martin Luther King
These two Events shaped our Generation.

The Vietnam war, Kent State Univ. shooting
Our Generation Before
Cell Phones, CDs, ATM, machines, Internet, Pagers, Cassettes Tapes Eight Track tapes
in the car. The swear jar

We barter food, sold eggs Goods,& Serves
Wore Galoshes to school on muddy roads

My generation as an Adult
Neighbors Voted in our garage
Their loving façade was an allusion Mirage  
Never answer “Who did you Vote for”
Airing ***** laundry in public, not smart
VOTING couples screaming, fighting in the street taught me.NEVER talk about;
Religion and Politics. Two Deadly Battles
The price, too High, to lose, your happy life

Gypsies gave daisies At the Airport
Make Love Not War, Peace bohemian style
California rock ‘n’ roll bands in the city
And to the sand, Artistry in the air
Music flourished,Bands played everywhere

The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd,
The Beatles, , Crosby, stills, Nash, Young
Simon and Garfunkel every day fair
Woodstock a whole other scene
To describe it, you had to be there

Drugs,;mushrooms, ***, psychedelics, acid
Roxy, & Rainbow Club where the weirdos went or Chinese tour buses,
filled with people dressed in 60s wear
Men wore a camera around their neck, Hawaiian shirt, black Horn rimmed glasses, Ladies poodle skirts with Peddicoats and white button down blouses and sweaters
in the 1979. I kid you not. strange people!
I wanted to ask what movie they saw that made them think this was California style?

Car Races on Van Nuys Blvd.
Parking with your boyfriend
Teen center held under 21 Dances.
The San Fernando Valley(Valley Girls)
Really said “for sure”. “Totally awesome” “whatever” “ not even” “ As If”

Orange Grove and walnut trees as far as the eye can see. The city Tarzana was named after Tarzan. South of the Boulevard 4 miles from Michael Jackson’s house. Modest home. Difference as night and day

Curiously, I never thought we were poor
We were rich in love, and that was more than enough. Help a friend in need
Because it’s the right thing to do.

people were people, Just getting along
Decent folks Kind and Caring,Sharing
God-fearing Christians, Moral Values
Live and let Live. The American Way

Any brighter and
streams in the ditches
would look like Cuyahoga River
across Cleveland during the 1960's

There is no fire, only flies
who make bright their bellies
and flash for show like the perverts
in metropolitan inner city parks

Enticed to the flies, like moths
to the ceiling globes,
we gather jars and lids
with air holes hammered hard

No walking as we streak
along gravel roads built after WWII
when rationing was lifted
and road speeds jumped

Flies caught one by one
are smashed on white tees,
luminous signals for drivers
alert to the folly of our play

Our madness endures
until Ball  jars become
dim lanterns of joy for us and jail
for the bugs doomed


to die before daybreak
until swept from the garage
floor as we plot our assault
on airborne glimmers along
tonight's roadsides

why is it that you only remember kissing?

or fumbling with plastic buttons in dim hallways, or folding his pants alongside your dresses
or laughing, or heading home to a bed you both could call yours.
why is it that the nights you spend crying in the next room- why does that fade?
you remain always dusty. god, all those days and months seperated by borders and waters you spent rationing these precious packages of recollection, closing your eyes and watching from a distance, as a younger, softer you rested her head on a pair of shoulders that were always there, a pair of shoulders that grew arms to hold you with, and a mouth to kiss you with, and fingers that would trace you and taste you and smudge you. now you know everything about love with nothing to show for it. now the safest place is nowhere near you.

you remember reaching out in the middle of the night, you remember why you quit smoking, you remember how he tasted, how he pulled you closer under the covers on cold sunday mornings. you would make room now when you would never make room before. now that it's too late, now that you are not fine. you remember kissing.

Despair
Trapped under tons of rock
How did they pass those 17 days,
A brotherhood of men
lost like a child’s shoe in the sand?
Rationing a morsel of food and water
for who knew how long
fate as uncertain as the stale air
and then another seventy days
of darkness and despair.

Freedom
The gradual progress of the drill
and all the careful calculations
before the flimsy cage,  
Encapsulated in a tube of rock,
a miracle of engineering,
determination and daring,
birth canal, difficult and painstaking,
a tunnel towards the light of freedom.

Faith
The prayer of a voice
from the depths of the desert,
A scrap of paper
Waved like a banner of life,
A freed miner kneeling,
resisting  for a moment
the magnet of family.
to give thanks in faith.

Joy*
The raw emotion
ore from the womb of the earth
the intensity of pain and joy
in the faces of the children  
as their fathers returned from the tomb;
a world waiting in the glare of hope
a world for once joined in joy.

It’s February, 2015, a Saturday and here I ‘yam.
Back in sunny California again:
The sun shining brightly again
On My Old Hemetucky Home,
Another mutant Stephen Foster tune.
Hemet: Riverside County,
Southern California,
The so-called Inland Empire,
According to the hyperbolic parlance,
Of sharkskin-suited land speculators,
Truly, the last of the
Patent medicine, liniments &
Snake oil hucksters.
Hemet: little oversight & lax policing
Yield a thriving, local
Medical-marijuana industry.
You are comfortably tucked . . .  
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(THAT’S RIGHT, *******: A ******* COMMERCIAL RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ******* POEM!  GIUSEPPI MARTINO BUONAIUTO--SURELY NOBODY”S FOOL—FINALLY FIGURING OUT HOW TO MAKE POETRY PAY, THEREFORE AVOIDING THE DIED-IN-THE-GUTTER BIT.)
You are safely tucked behind the impenetrable
(www.tucks.com)
Wackenhut G4S Security-
(www.wackenhut.com)
Policed & Patrolled walls,
Of your typical over-55 gated lunatic asylum.
“For Active Adults,” reads the sign,
Whatever that means.
I’ve been thinking about the adventurous young.
What is it these bright,
Wander-lusting whippersnappers
Fixate and obsess about.
Like dropping out & coasting for a while.
Dropping out & coasting:
Not as easy to pull off for 20-somethings these days,
As it was in the late sixties/early seventies,
Flush times for Guns & Butter.
Where is it cheap to live?
Where on . . .
“This blessed plot, this earth,
This realm, this England . . .”
Where on this ozone-depleted,
Global fondue fungus ***,
Can I go to just sit still?
To think:  to make sense of it all?
It’s leisure, Kemosabe.
Leisure cultivates philosophy.
LEISURE:
The very stuff of curiosity and
REACH—
As in: “One’s grasp should exceed one’s reach”—
Idleness leads us,
Gifts us with understanding &
Self-awareness.
You are 21 again, and restless.
You are unwilling to just settle in.
So, where do you go?
Where can you live on savings?
To not work,
But not go hungry?
To just sit still,
Contemplating the state of the wicket,
Be it wicked or sticky.
Today it’s Prague and Berlin—
Or, for the truly decadent: Bangkok.
For us it was Florence or Paris—
Or, for the truly frugal,
Driving our cars to Mecca: Montreal,
"La Métropole du Québec"
Sanctified are the places we’ve chilled.
Shrines & vortexes; each holy latitude,
As Han Solo drolly reminds us:
“It’s not the years; it’s the miles.”
The amount of ground covered,
A blessing devoutly to be wished in Old Age:
But I digress.
Just the thought of hanging out
Some place really cool,
Yet relatively inexpensive--
In a parlance acquired
Over the years and the miles,
Tactfulness learned,
Manipulating the language
For fun & profit.
Common sense is aged in the barrel
And the bottle, rephrased.
Vernacular Viniculture.
Which proves my point:
If you live long enough &
Read enough of the right stuff,
Eventually you’ll discover
A precise, more exact vocabulary,
Appropriate for Old Age inner monolog.
Would Old Age be tedious?
Boring, for those who
Never went anywhere?
Both physically & spiritually speaking.
Are memories our only revenge on Old Age?
And for those hiding behind the barriers,
Safe. Ignorant. Jolly. Dull.
A fast track toward senility &
Evanescence.
Does Alzheimer’s seek out & destroy the
Most cloistered among us?
While those bold & beautiful,
Experienced, still spinning,
Still weaving a tapestry in 3-D Technicolor.
Remembrances of things past . . .
(Get back in your hole, Marcel . . .)
And as the AARP crowd knows so well:
We Baby Boomers really had it pretty soft.
Boom economics,
Conspicuous consumption,
Coonskin hats, Betsy Wetsies & Hula Hoops!
By and large:
FUN TIMES!
No Great Depression,
No chocolate rationing.
A jungle war pretty much optional,
For most of us of the
American bourgeoisie.
We’ve got a lot to remember.
We’ve much to be grateful for.
Electronic media changed everything for us.
Television and movie theaters gave us
Alternative dimensions,
Parallel lives,
Multiple identities.
Experience so real that
To see it on the screen
Was to live it, oneself.
Perhaps those video downloads
Might prove useful one day.
Comforts out on Golden Pond.
Will you still need me?
Will you still feed me?
When I'm sixty-four?
Grazie, Sir Paulie.

6 more cigarettes, she counts,
rationing her existence.
Finding something to need other than sleep is refreshing.
She can hear his voice
through the walls
and she inhales deeply.
She needs the smoke to blacken her lungs
as a small pittance of retribution, reflecting the blackness she  holds in her heart.
And, as she exhales,
she lets the smoke burn
her eye
as she watches watches it coil
and curl away.
Someday
she will display her wounds
proudly
as battle scars.
Bur first she must survive, and heal. 
5 more to go.

a tree did grow
in Brooklyn.        it was June--
our third-- and the summer weather
hadn't turned yet:
school was just out, Prospect Park was never full, and the nights
were still              cool.

it was summer in the city before it comes unglued.
i had yet to resent the F train terminal
or its crowds
or its sweat.  i hadn't grown bored
of 23rd St. on one end of the day
and Church Avenue on another,
or of the cost of cigarettes
or coffee or of the FOODTOWN sign
at the top of the subway steps.
it was a beautiful month
because it was doomed barely to last
its 30 days.

and there were too so many long hours,
sitting                  barely shaded
on your stoop,
fending off the landlord's sister and the bugs and waiting
for the fall.
each time i've gone back
since then i've sat
on those slow steps;
that summer it was no different:  three months to crown three
years,
moving                  so timelessly
by

that next month the heat bore down,
not the heat only of the sun and the air but the wet,
***** heat of the city,
steam forever rising from underground, the oil spills
in the gutters         beginning to boil.

but still it was New York
and summer.  the roaches and rats hadn't yet
eaten                     all the fireflies.  
i grew to love routine
disquiet:  the long car rides to Queens,
the Mets games and their pretzel smell and riding back,
inevitably discouraged,
my homemade tank top leaking Magic marker onto my chest;
the trips to the beach at Rockaway, sullen and determined, and their return
to Manhattan, tasting like salt (and you, once,
like blood) and my hair stiff
with brine and feeling the sand in our shoes grit
against the ***** sidewalks;
those quick walks
from Smith&9th Streets,
sipping Mexican Cokes and rationing our time
by cigarettes:  
all of July was exhausting,
but familiar by then.


in August the tornado came,
first Brooklyn'd seen in 30 years.  we two
slept blissfully through it, woke only
for the aftermath.
we went outside almost giddy, certainly
unbelieving,
holding hands.
and the tree
which had stood outside so
serenly
was uprooted,
having missed the bedroom window
by only a few feet.

[it was June--
cool.
barely shaded
so timelessly
beginning to boil
all the fireflies.]