Reversal. The off ramp taken three dozen times.
The 37th with snow on the ground
in a squall and in a hurry
when the rear end
stepped out.
Lift throttle, let the weight
shift forward and return traction
to the wheels still guiding the path.
Instead of flipping the sedan over the jersey wall
get home safe.
Things are not the same. The tires guiding
are not the tires powering. Do not forget
when things begin to slip with rear wheel drive
alone, power will not be your enemy.
original works of parts
The Ground Assault
Jump from the green painted porch into a pile of leaves.
Run back across the front and take the stairs two at once
to do it again.
Summer was amazing. Bright blue free standing pools
and ivy climbing up in the tunnel between the garage and
ten foot wall marking the property line between Taylor street
and the other side of the block. The dare to brave it,
so many G.I. Joes gone in the call of never ended days duty.
Skid stops on BMXs kicking driveway gravel yards out
to the street.
Expeditions to the bodega and thieving lessons,
whole sleeves of cookies at a time and if ya
put the 8 bit, flip top, handheld, black on bronze screen
toys in your mouth they won't trip the door sensors
or tip off cashiers, or just stick the bags of Legos inside
a burgundy knit hat.
Follow round chase arounds and games of tag
that end if and only if the people from two blocks over
run away from the square of Staten Island that is fair game,
chased to curb edge. Maybe a few yards further,
but no more.
Holding hands over tea.
A thumb across your knuckles and again.
Teeth spread laughing over
what might grow in the window box
once the weather really starts to get cold this year and
wondering what the nap headed gray eyed
ragamuffins will get up to when they arrive
years from now.
Snapped awake years from then.
Run back across the front and take the stairs two at once
to do it again.
Summer was amazing. Bright blue free standing pools
and ivy climbing up in the tunnel between the garage and
ten foot wall marking the property line between Taylor street
and the other side of the block. The dare to brave it,
so many G.I. Joes gone in the call of never ended days duty.
Skid stops on BMXs kicking driveway gravel yards out
to the street.
Expeditions to the bodega and thieving lessons,
whole sleeves of cookies at a time and if ya
put the 8 bit, flip top, handheld, black on bronze screen
toys in your mouth they won't trip the door sensors
or tip off cashiers, or just stick the bags of Legos inside
a burgundy knit hat.
Follow round chase arounds and games of tag
that end if and only if the people from two blocks over
run away from the square of Staten Island that is fair game,
chased to curb edge. Maybe a few yards further,
but no more.
Holding hands over tea.
A thumb across your knuckles and again.
Teeth spread laughing over
what might grow in the window box
once the weather really starts to get cold this year and
wondering what the nap headed gray eyed
ragamuffins will get up to when they arrive
years from now.
Snapped awake years from then.
Fly By Wire
I used to rely on cables
to move surfaces
before science showed me there was a speed beyond propellers
where cables braided simply would not do and
power boosted hydraulics could
feed back too much noise and snatch control
from my fingertips like a bad winged bird
screaming through the copper bars of its cage.
Now I tell the motors what to do,
electronic songs
feel less brave.
To the aerodome to tear the dusty canvas off
elliptical wing tips and fifty caliber air cooled guns,
pull the pins off five hundred pound dumb bombs,
and push in the choke on horizontal opposed
28 cylinder, super charged dreams.
Tonight we ride inside the envelope,
fingertip close to the air speaking back
every vibration our heart knows.
Tonight we hug the cirrus clouds
and let our gun barrels glow.
The towns and ship yards beneath us light up
along the joy ride. Concussions come through
throaty bass while our propeller tears the air,
flak fire in our face.
I miss the shudder, the body racking shudder of a stall.
The thrill of lift on lost weight,
wanting to roll in and watch the pounders hit their marks,
ballooning orange white and speckle black debris
against the night.
Until the purpose built fighters come in and
the fuel gauge takes center stage and
the only thing in mind
is making it back to friendly territory alive
at war speed.
to move surfaces
before science showed me there was a speed beyond propellers
where cables braided simply would not do and
power boosted hydraulics could
feed back too much noise and snatch control
from my fingertips like a bad winged bird
screaming through the copper bars of its cage.
Now I tell the motors what to do,
electronic songs
feel less brave.
To the aerodome to tear the dusty canvas off
elliptical wing tips and fifty caliber air cooled guns,
pull the pins off five hundred pound dumb bombs,
and push in the choke on horizontal opposed
28 cylinder, super charged dreams.
Tonight we ride inside the envelope,
fingertip close to the air speaking back
every vibration our heart knows.
Tonight we hug the cirrus clouds
and let our gun barrels glow.
The towns and ship yards beneath us light up
along the joy ride. Concussions come through
throaty bass while our propeller tears the air,
flak fire in our face.
I miss the shudder, the body racking shudder of a stall.
The thrill of lift on lost weight,
wanting to roll in and watch the pounders hit their marks,
ballooning orange white and speckle black debris
against the night.
Until the purpose built fighters come in and
the fuel gauge takes center stage and
the only thing in mind
is making it back to friendly territory alive
at war speed.
Fisherman's Song
Today we fish on the side of the river,
casting lines from the rocks underneath low limb hung trees.
Don't slip, if you drop anything leave it go,
for the dam water has an appetite no one can please.
Today we fish on the side of the river,
where current churns hard and rocks await beneath.
The current is strong and the slope is severe,
but the quiet pool keeps steady and fat catfish in between.
Where everything settles chum and twig float,
they'll be skulking, stomachs mean,
and if you get lucky and stay tuned
while the sun beats, beer cans tossed back to bush and tree,
you may land one worth a photo on a good Saturday,
or, at least, get a good workout because
chairs are pointless
when the face of the flat rocked ridge
beside the dam ready to take you under
is sloping something close to 60 degrees.
casting lines from the rocks underneath low limb hung trees.
Don't slip, if you drop anything leave it go,
for the dam water has an appetite no one can please.
Today we fish on the side of the river,
where current churns hard and rocks await beneath.
The current is strong and the slope is severe,
but the quiet pool keeps steady and fat catfish in between.
Where everything settles chum and twig float,
they'll be skulking, stomachs mean,
and if you get lucky and stay tuned
while the sun beats, beer cans tossed back to bush and tree,
you may land one worth a photo on a good Saturday,
or, at least, get a good workout because
chairs are pointless
when the face of the flat rocked ridge
beside the dam ready to take you under
is sloping something close to 60 degrees.
Touch Noses
My boots were cooling
after tough reentry
from the upper atmosphere and
your cigarette was a centipede of ash
black tailed.
The scarf my ex gave me was around your neck and
I was on my way to the floor to sleep or swim
on elbows toward the door.
"I have to wake up tomorrow."
"I have to wake up now."
"I can't."
"You can."
"Where is my damn wallet? Come on, beautiful!"
"No!"
The snow was no deeper than any other December.
I remember the long stumble home. The coffee table
going on its side. The ashtray smacking me in the eye
still in your hand when the lights went out in yours.
Her words repeating through your still mouth.
Touching you is like petting a horses nose.
Spooked every step of the way and
remembering your gray rooted dreadlocks and
chain smoke rumble laugh and
how we left the pub that night,
glass bead snowmelt on our foreheads,
promise where our lips connected,
softness where the hoop of your ice cold
piercing touched my nose and
fire leaped through
to a heap I neglected
for too long and
consumed you and me. I'm sorry.
You were an accident. I was too.
In pieces, that night, always forgetting.
Drowning until my gentle heart
floats to the surface of an ocean
I did not know I plied
until the night we touched noses.
after tough reentry
from the upper atmosphere and
your cigarette was a centipede of ash
black tailed.
The scarf my ex gave me was around your neck and
I was on my way to the floor to sleep or swim
on elbows toward the door.
"I have to wake up tomorrow."
"I have to wake up now."
"I can't."
"You can."
"Where is my damn wallet? Come on, beautiful!"
"No!"
The snow was no deeper than any other December.
I remember the long stumble home. The coffee table
going on its side. The ashtray smacking me in the eye
still in your hand when the lights went out in yours.
Her words repeating through your still mouth.
Touching you is like petting a horses nose.
Spooked every step of the way and
remembering your gray rooted dreadlocks and
chain smoke rumble laugh and
how we left the pub that night,
glass bead snowmelt on our foreheads,
promise where our lips connected,
softness where the hoop of your ice cold
piercing touched my nose and
fire leaped through
to a heap I neglected
for too long and
consumed you and me. I'm sorry.
You were an accident. I was too.
In pieces, that night, always forgetting.
Drowning until my gentle heart
floats to the surface of an ocean
I did not know I plied
until the night we touched noses.
Super Collider
Love is never enough.
You know that.
I know that.
A little mores.
In hyperspace everything stands stilled.
Watching leaves
brown, orange, and blood red,
blow along the curb, flicking lights looping
with them
and finding time to hoc green sinus throat chunks
sticky where they smack
against those curbs.
Autumn love. Or something near it.
We get sloppy, don't we?
It's been easier spending time with you.
The sun is brutal on the water.
My sunglasses in your apartment.
Stars streaking back to night while we chit chat.
You know that.
I know that.
A little mores.
In hyperspace everything stands stilled.
Watching leaves
brown, orange, and blood red,
blow along the curb, flicking lights looping
with them
and finding time to hoc green sinus throat chunks
sticky where they smack
against those curbs.
Autumn love. Or something near it.
We get sloppy, don't we?
It's been easier spending time with you.
The sun is brutal on the water.
My sunglasses in your apartment.
Stars streaking back to night while we chit chat.
Scars
From an Lt to my motherfucking General,
a message to be my motherfucking heneral.
I look up to a lot of motherfuckers that don't deserve it
and you are one of the sonbitches actually swerve it.
Making the move and the choose and the two twos
that actually make the world move underneath foreign feet.
I don't know what it is that makes reel real, but I know
what makes kids beat their feet.
It's hard not to squirrel out and pride myself on being
a some kind of self made man. Cuz if I had enough arms
I wouldn't have enough hands. Birthday beatings and
shit in a can. Pop the top and drink like
suburban bullshit skins to mask what asks.
It gets rough and the times went tough and I wish
I had an alcoholic dad. At least then, things would've
been explained, railroad tracks pointing the trains,
but they didn't and they weren't and I live with
mystery. Phantoms of an age I can never understand
and music played from an unhired band. I rand
because I want to. Because I need to.
Because you will never be fifteen years back
where He was.
a message to be my motherfucking heneral.
I look up to a lot of motherfuckers that don't deserve it
and you are one of the sonbitches actually swerve it.
Making the move and the choose and the two twos
that actually make the world move underneath foreign feet.
I don't know what it is that makes reel real, but I know
what makes kids beat their feet.
It's hard not to squirrel out and pride myself on being
a some kind of self made man. Cuz if I had enough arms
I wouldn't have enough hands. Birthday beatings and
shit in a can. Pop the top and drink like
suburban bullshit skins to mask what asks.
It gets rough and the times went tough and I wish
I had an alcoholic dad. At least then, things would've
been explained, railroad tracks pointing the trains,
but they didn't and they weren't and I live with
mystery. Phantoms of an age I can never understand
and music played from an unhired band. I rand
because I want to. Because I need to.
Because you will never be fifteen years back
where He was.
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