Angel's breath

I felt the angel's warm breath

on the back of my neck

but it was just

the laundromat's exhaust.

I spun around hoping

for a guardian and found

a hopeful street walker instead.

There's not much salvation

to be had for fifty bucks,

cooking up a spoonful

or renting a body and a bed.

She said, do you have a date?

and let go of the nubby knee length coat

that she clutched at her throat.

Underneath, her dress

barely reached her thighs.

I already have one, I lied.

trying to hide my naivete and pride.

If I'd listened to my body

and not the fires in my head,

I would have received a lesson

about the fusion of two warm bodies

instead of Edward Teller's cold vision

of fission products and isotopes,

countdowns, kilotons, trajectories,

and the price of primo Afghan dope.

I said, I'm just waiting for my bus.

She just smiled and replied,Sure honey,

but if it don't work out, I'll be right here

to take you somewhere where

it's really nice and warm inside.

But the ride I was on took longer,

and the breath that I felt

was no angel's but mine.

Parts unknown

I'm unknown in

Manhattan,

but I can recall it

on waking sometimes

when the universe is kind.

Even if the dream

which has me smiling,

disappears,

and it is just another morning

shower, coffee, magazine,

fragment of a thought, before

I sit down at the screen

to draw a map of a place

I've never been.

some city in Los Angeles,

not Manhattan or Queens.

I was there at seventeen,

no one knew me then,

and might not ever still.

Fries with that

This guy, big bushy beard

and a dirty A's cap,

spreads a box of french fries

on the sidewalk on Front Street.

Stirs and stares at them

like some kind of divination,

the one where a shaman

tosses sticks and reads the pattern.

Chuckles softly and chooses one.

Pops it into his mouth.

Some crumbs trickle down

and stick in his beard.

A nattily dressed, fiftyish man,

slacks, white shirt and tie, blazer,

with dignified, upright posture,

pushes a wire shopping cart

packed with his possessions

down the street.

A boom box in his cart blares

a big marching band version

of My Country 'tis of Thee

followed by the Star Spangled Banner.

He strides with military precision.

Three office hipsters stroll side by side

stepping around the french fry guy.

Talking about bosses and boyfriends

and trying to decide where to go

for happy hour drinks.

The sidewalk french fry shaman

points a limp fry at the hipsters,

laughs and says,

how ‘bout buying one for me?

A family of tourists,

dressed for last week's weather

and looking lost,

peer at maps and apps.

Dad points left, Mom points right,

the girl peeks at the french fries,

the boy stares at his feet.

the gift

that this stony orb

with a molten heart

bathed in a sea of tears

was as right as goldilocks'

middle bowl and bed.

that we have stardust

in our bones.

that microbes and algae

branched and flowered

till sequoias towered

and bower birds

decorated the jungle floor

with bright pebbles

and scarlet flowers.

that it's been sixty five

million years since

the last big asteroid

struck the earth

and that eden's apple

kept on falling til  it landed

on isaac newton's head.

that women's contours

are more pleasing

than adam's rib.

that the menagerie

at lascaux was not

a one time stroke.

that gray whales still

compose new songs

each year and my ear

can find delight in them

as much as bach and rock.

that a dying man

playing a rusty anthem

on a badly tuned piano

still makes me shiver.

that sidewalk sleepers

fill me with shame

and gratitude

that my nights spent

under bridges

have been few.

that love is where

you make it

if you want to.

no toasts and flowers

for mohammed and maria,

none for john and robert ,

or father tom and sister jane,

and never jennifer and kate.

and jethro and jamaica

will surely burn forever.

however there's a corner

of verona in every town

and an alley back

behind it where

clandestine lovers

make plans and promises

and fornicate

before the swords

and ugly words emerge

to scourge and vilify,

and test their courage

in the public eye

and the tulsa tongues

begin to deeply savor

all the juicy flavor of the stories

passed from phone to phone

about what a certain minister

has been doing with his brother's wife.

if that goes where it looks like it's going

i don't expect we'll be throwing any rice.

and by the way, i heard

that a salt and pepper couple

-if you know what I mean-

have been seen performing acts

that would make a porn queen blush

i have it on good authority

that every tuesday night

they go at it in a car

parked out behind that bar

on county road 18.

Grace

In the old man's mind's eye

he saw his faith as like

a broken stained glass

window in the church

where he had learned

comforting psalms as a child,

when his kindergarten innocence

was still intact but cracking. 

His grace.

insubstantial as a moth

disappearing

in the altar candle's flame.

He found comfort -sometimes-

on rainy weekday afternoons

drowsing in a back row pew

sheltered from the latest news.

Sunday services were too much.

Too much goodwill, too much love

which he found difficult to reciprocate.

But he loved the music, so

he tried to be invisible

wrapped deep within his overcoat,

joining the joyous songs so softly

a ventriloquist would be proud.

He always left

before the service ended,

found his favorite bench

in the park across the street

where he could sit unnoticed

as the elderly often seem to be;

a fragment of the landscape

like the pigeons and the elms.

Ain't no cure

Jamal was pissed.

insisting to his sister

loudly on his Samsung,

-build the wall, build the wall.

His interview had gone badly

and he suspected

that the manager, Mr Garcia

was holding out the position

for some damn cousin

up from some god damn

fuck'n Burritoville

like the three senoritas

he saw working the register

and the sandwich counter.

He glared at the rest of us

waiting for the bus

like he didn't care who

was listening.

Maria and Meifeng

stared at the ground.

Joyce, the transit Inspector

the one who looks like

a caramel hip hop dream,

leaned up against the window

outside the new Philz Coffee,

rolled her eyes, curled her lip,

caught my glance with a sadly

knowing nod as if to say,

What world does the brother

wanna be livin' in? walled up

like a whites only country club?

This Trump bullshit is getting thick.