Who should beware the Ides of March?

Politicians, people who lie, betray, embezzle, who did wrong, and knew they did wrong,
they should wise up and stop their callous actions,
before more blood is shed,
before another madman shoots up a school or public place,
before ignorance becomes the norm,
before social media shares and dissects all,
before it’s too late to do the right thing.

How would you like to be remembered?
By your vile acts against humanity,
by a second Shakespeare,
who would turn your torrid tale into literature, a play, a news story?

Settle your affairs and your debts,
and tell the truth.
It’s the right thing to do.

Was Stephen Hawking a poet?
Yes, he wrote of the cosmos as if it was a beloved, mysterious lover.

Black holes, quantum mechanics, a brief history of Time,
he was known for these things, not just for his ailments,
his brain was a complete wondrous thing, to be brilliant
in the most progressive and transgressive of times.

Poetic that he died on Pi Day,
the most mystical of all-known numbers, constantly evolving & growing,
drifting into space, forever changing and computing—
perhaps we will eventually find a bit of Hawking’s essence
floating forever in the stars, constantly computing and evolving,
never standing still—

Quinn tastes like diesel in Queens,
the worst SnoCone flavor.

we tread through slippery slush
and I wonder how many kids came upon it with their feet,
the marks were still fresh upon the grey mush.

Wind howled with the oncoming traffic,
umbrellas died in the great guffs,
Quinn’s snow covered us without remorse,
her flakes were wet and fat.

By 7th Ave. my coat was still soaked.
Why were the other coats still bone-dry?

If I still worked in Manhattan,
it would have been manageable;
Quinn’s flakes are fine & sedate
in Columbus Circle.

Untethered ballerinas in Queens Plaza cross over towards Sunnyside Yard,
tiptoeing as if they were still children, and grounded acrobats,
heavy from endless aerials, try to avoid the live wire on the bridge,
barely missing the train as it flies over their heads.

The rest of the ones, born grounded,
cross over the Queensboro Bridge safely on buses and in their cars;
they creep slow, along with the traffic, they sonder on, currently unsatisfied,
wishing they could fly and float away, at least, a bit faster
than whatever mood-elevation they’re currently on—

Another lackluster Tuesday, almost electrified
as the commuters slowly gain some needed power as they ride.

Those hundreds of young lambs, not yet thirty, gathered thick upon the opera house,
waiting for Greenwood’s genius—the good-natured Jonny is not just a rocker, but he could orchestrate gorgeous, classical music from mid-1950’s London, and I wonder:
“Did these young lambs ever heard such music before?”

After the live orchestra finished playing the movie,
the lambs went drinking at the biergarten
as I sopped up Ethiopian chicken stew and yellow lentils,
mulling over the themes of the theater
and the spicy flavors of the meat
(I stayed away from the lamb)

Ice dancers do their rhumbas
donning Latin fringe,
gliding their twizzles in 7 second-long rotations,
skating towards first place—

Twilit, almost wearing the soul of evening.

We long to be in the heart of the action,
both the girl & boy move like poetry
as they heat up the ice with their sexy moves.

The ladies, bright as male peacocks,
the men, in black, glittered, skintight deep-V shirts,
both playing the rose and the stem.

Bloody Valentines,
Ash Wednesday’s victims turn to ash.
Another senseless shooting in Florida

17 deaths and counting,
the school kids dodged bullets,
some of them never returning home—
just another senseless shooting in Florida

Why is it so easy
for a 19-year-old to buy an AR-15 rifle?
Do we blame his mental illness or today’s gun laws?
Or Republicans?

Why, God, if you’re still here,
was there
another senseless shooting in Florida?

No one deserves to die like this.


You say the damage is done,

too many doors to open & go through

Not just freckles upon your face,

and the old dream’s almost over—

But if we do make the list,

and reach the mountain top, boys & girls

This wasn’t just a daydream,

the impossible concept of becoming happy

A blinding, nagging hindrance

we all need to chase away

A potent thought in a safe place

should be carefully watered.

Within one singular breath
is the distance between life and death,
for ones not yet born and those who have been here,
young, old, straight, queer—

Man, woman, and those singularly defined,
we cross the paths to the future primed
without a road map, without explanation,
we exist, moving from station to station

sometimes armed with knowledge, sometimes learning nothing—
Life is sparked, lit and burning true, then snuffed out, a done thing.
Did we wonder what we would have done if we knew,
if this were the last time? Suspicions grew

fast, and blame and grief, and guilt too, they last; the memories overpower
all the consolations of well-wishers, the inner never-ceasing shower
from utter loss, feeling like rubbish, without hope or certainty.
What is life now without my loved one beside me?

Our baby had checked out early; what can we do now?
The snow falls fast upon the farmer’s plow,
even after tragedy, we keep on moving; one must not wait,
so others can be fed, and to not suffer the same fate.

For all are invited to Death’s door,
let’s pray it’s not our time to go yet, remain here a little more.

Yes, each one of us has a soul,
the ones who see colors when music is playing,
the ones who smell nonexistent burnt toast during a grand mal seizure,
the ones who hear voices every time they walk around

The brain is a curious thing.
It will rewire its pathways after a sudden injury,
and can detect things out of sync, yet being in sync while in the same instant.

The weirdoes, the beautiful ones and the strong shall survive the longest.
Especially those raising young children, like my younger brother
who grew up wanting a brother; now he’s raising two of them.

I wonder how his brain is wired?
Dr. Penfield, one of the greatest Canadians and neurosurgeons,
recognized its fragility, weirdness, beauty and strength.

Not everyone could snap their fingers.
I can’t but he could; he can’t sing but I could.
He can’t see the color green, or can’t lie to save his own life.
I miss my brother plenty. I hope he’s fine today.