THE LAST RODEO
strange this trip back in time
not with flesh and blood but
in the disguise of poems
having survived all these decades
the muscles the cells all changing dying
yet somehow managing to survive
traveling through a time tunnel through
an origin you cannot remember because
there is no you to remember it
I walk behind my shadow
shed the years like a snake sheds its skin
I who have never called myself a poet
never clothed myself in consonants and vowels
nor took refuge in similes or metaphors
yet plant the words on the page like
a florist preparing a bridal bouquet
a tender arrangement of flesh and bones
at war with the demons who leave behind
a Custer massacre of words
left cooking these images like
a skilled fry-cook at a greasy diner
I wake at three in the morning
with junkie like sweats
my eyes a heat-seeking missile
homed in on an invisible kill
left feeling like an alcoholic with the DT’s
trying to roll a cigarette atop a bucking bull
at the world’s last rodeo
RIP Jack Hirschman <br 1933-2021
The streets of North Beach are quiet
Silent taps play at Spec’s
The Cafe Trieste weeps
The Red Brigade beats its drums
Poems loud as thunder
Beat back the dark clouds
Enter the eardrums like artillery fire
Like Bob Kaufman said
“When I die I won’t stay dead”
Lawrence Ferlinghetti waits to greet you
Beautiful butterflies spread their wings
Reshape the stars the universe
Cosmic matter waiting to be reborn
ODE TO PEDRO
I was never a baseball fan,
Not really.
So how did it happen that the
Closest, dearest friend
Of my life
Was a prodigy who
Made it to the Show
And lingered there for only
A few years
Before bailing—missing the revivifying succor
Of family and friends.
Of course, it was later—much later—
That I would meet Pedro,
When he wandered into my office
Announcing: he wished
To be my Deputy Director.
Hmm. I ran a schools program
For the City of New York,
The part that watched over housing
And the people who sheltered there,
Directing a learning program for kids
From kindergarten on up
One that taught youngsters about
Rent and the law and the courts and economics and
Cockroaches and vermin and lead poisoning
And garbage disposal
And community gardens and
Keeping safe and clean and wise
In households that loved them.
And who was this guy, again?
A baseball player? Who’d pitched
And hit and run for the Braves
And the Giants?
Well, to be sure, he’d also been electrician and
property manager
and I had my own peculiar trajectory:
a college professor in
Russian history, a poet, a novelist, a short story
writer—What was I doing in this particular slot,
running a program about housing?
Whatever the case,
these opposites met and, in a
Few years of work together
Forged a bond that lasted
Until Pedro died.
And long afterwards,
which is to say
Until this very moment.