two three times a week
I see her sitting on the balcony
when weather permits
here in old Italy town
in what is left of North Beach
Woman on the Balcony
Seven poems on the fortifications of Cartagena, Spain
The Batteries of Aguilones and Conejo
2 batteries, abandoned villages
on hillsides looking out across the sea
linked by the tunnel of the wind, a pass.
Conejo as the name implies is full
of rabbits breeding merrily
Nobody shoots them there. It´s far too near
refineries. A spark could send those up
Did eagles fly over Aguilones once?
The only eagle left there is mosaic.
TOGETHER,
they rule the world of seduction, aiming to evade lonely masturbation as they parade through bars and clubs, nervous nerds peacocking their way to alpha, mocking targets in a bid for numbers and nymphae, sarging sets and placing bets on a full close (fucking that sexy 9 who wouldn’t look at you twice without your magic tricks who’s now sucking your dick because you used Takeaway and Sniper Neg). Fancy acronyms and fat phonebooks aside, all these men playing The Game are the same. Unable to trust in their own personalities, they set out to create Playboy realities in the minds of drunk chicks in bars, telling these 7s and 8s that their fates are written in the stars (’cause chicks dig astrology). All these lines for changing women’s minds are a front for poor socialisation, for a culture where domination is easier to embrace than self-acceptance (you daydream about fewer might-have-beens when it’s just a routine). All these men playing The Game are the same as us. They’re face with a familiar dilemma of desire: they want to be fucked, but they need to be wanted.
Poem for My First Love
Seven months into my 80th birthday
I slip back in time
I’m driving down highway one where
California’s fertile hills wink at me
Wide-Eyed to the World
The farmhouse floats, an island in a sea of rape.
From a bus labouring on high roads you gaze down
at a boreen, visible now, snaking through an ocean of amarillo.
Watch What Develops
I have never been to Coney Island
yet the Ferris wheel in sepia-drenched
pictures, the greenish tint of old Polaroids,