Below, find a few of the poems I have written about Kenilworth and about the city.
The lanes of I-270 split, east and west-
a welcoming gate. In the eastern sky
a buttertub moon, scudded with clouds.
He thinks of home-the neighborhood,
downtown, buildings, friends that wait for him.
"Freedom," he thinks, "for the next three months."
In the west, the sudden glare of a spotlight
arrests the scene. The helicopter's search
reminds him of the city's crime, the jury seats.
"Can't you see," he yells, "that the moon is out?
Cut off the light; the prosecution can wait-
sequester your whirly-bird and watch that moon."
But the search goes on.
A gavel flattens the moon.
Prison bars streak the sky.
Fox hails my green rollerblades;
I glide over drab concrete where he deals
in the apartment's courtyard-
playmates grown apart for years.
A plastic packet meets
a stranger's slip of green
as we reminisce. "You know how it is,"
he excuses, "you grew up here.
It's the negatives and the positives.
I can't get out; every time I try
they change the rules."
He points to where Farley was shot in '96.
"They did him in, man."
I remember him, faintly,
from the childhood football lot.
I wonder how it looked
to see the body lunge, then crumple,
hole in his coat oozing red stains,
furious report echoing out
over the slow-motion street.
Fox sells for his two girls.
I mention my mother's sixty-fifth
birthday. "I'll be lucky to make it
past thirty," he says.
The negatives and the positives.
Light and dark.
The white and the black.
Plus and minus.
My sister Lois-never
married, twists her uncut hair
in a tight bun, hates
to wash it. Never wears pants.
As she walks to the mailbox
a neighborhood boy stops,
looks at her shyly-
"Hi Mary," he says, gives
her a hug. "Ain't you
a part a God?"
My sister Lois-surely
a virgin; I doubt
she's seen an angel.
Perhaps she's been one.
one corner,
twice twenty feet
of sidewalk
yet my hands
hang hard
like shackles
my feet
drag low
like chattel
my eyes
look down
like shame
my mind
reads skin
like civil war
for forty feet
of sidewalk bids
and selling
The day is no god,
not in the city, not
in the heat of summer;
the day is only prelude
to the night: Queen
of Africa, home
for the wanderer, lover
of syncopated souls.
The day is no god
though even I, city-
dweller, awake
to the music of light.
Day is a white deity.
We look for a thing
more elemental,
more earthy, less pure.
The city bows to night.
Then offices empty
and bars sing praise
while janitors clean
for the next day's take.
Then the perfect sleep
while lonely hunters
range the deadpan streets.
Hear stolen tires squeal the rounds.
Creep into the deep of night.
See moon-shine full through bare-
branched trees, shine bright.
Blood-burning moon. Sinner!
Step out and feel the fell of dark.
Blue dealers flash their wares.
A black cat pads the street.
Someone shoots into the air.
Come out that project door!
Lead me soft into the light.
A soul will pass away tonight.
Each time I sense the wonder of this world
I stop to see, take notes, believe. I might
be clinging to a mountainside or curled
upon a rock in forest streaked with light.
Although, I must confess, I can get bored
with trees. My muse lives in a city square,
mostly, splashing in the fountain, moored
upon a bench, or hogging trash can fare.
Often, I regard myself as poor,
a panhandler who begs of beauty small change.
Let me have cement, I say, that door
into the tenement, this used syringe
dropped at the curb. The urban landscape cries
and I perceive with pencil, heart, eyes.
Keep in touch - Joe (lappjoe@yahoo.com)