Sunday, July 13, 2014


at Riley’s Sporting Goods on Laurel Street,
sawed them off if they seemed too long.
South Jersey side streets, makeshift games
whacking a plastic ball at the one boy with
a mask, pads, and goalie stick. He’d block
them all and kids chanted like fans at the
Spectrum- Bernie! Bernie! Bernie! Bernie!
We pretended to be Broad Street Bullies-
Bobby Clarke, Bill Barber, Dave Schultz.
In school, we drew pictures of them with
clenched fists, black eyes, teeth missing,
orange sweaters with the famous flying P.
Saturday nights we’d put on Channel 29
in the back room, a fire always burned and
Pop smoked El Productos in his easy chair.
Kate Smith’s God Bless America, the voice
of Gene Hart delivered play by play of battles
with Blackhawks, Redwings, and Canadians.
At Christmas, we asked for black and orange
coats, hats, everyone wanted to be a big fan.
Before bed we’d drink milk in glasses with the
unforgettable saying- Lord Stanley Lives in Philly! 

Friday, May 30, 2014


Sometimes I go days without looking in the mirror.
I get a good look when I decide it’s time to shave.
In front of the sink, shake the can of Edge, lather up-
I wonder when the wrinkles start, been lucky so far.
My left eye, no- right eye is bloodshot again, stress?

Notice more white hairs than dark, there’s a blemish.
A few spots here and there, never had them before.
My wife insists I should go and get them checked out.
I look tired after a full night of sleep and why does hair
grow faster in my nose, ears, on the back of my neck?

Somewhere between the last razor stroke and splashing
on the cold water, I remember the friend from college
who always joked about having a Talking Heads moment
while shaving. All of a sudden you stop, stare at the mirror
and say “You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?”


spreading like a disease, with over 800,000 hits, still going
they’re fighting in the streets, kicking each other in the ribs,
dragging women by their hair, beating each other down in
school yards, restaurants, on city buses, put it on You Tube.
Bystanders, no longer stand by, they hold their phones up high.

Commenting on the action, laughing at the poundings, gasping
at the beatings, shocked by the blood flow, but still recording.
No one tries to break it up, avert the crisis, diffuse the conflict,
or call the cops, happy to push record,  glad the beating is not
on them, while others sit at home- clicking, watching, sharing.


Black jersey and a Phillies cap, we drove down
early in the morning with him belted in the backseat.
He read the directions printed out from the internet,
we found the Philadelphia zoo, I called him My Navigator.
I remember being amazed at how the Monkey House hadn't
changed since my kindergarten class field trip back in ’72.

Been a while, a long time since we've been back.

We rode on to Independence Mall and took photos
with the Liberty Bell, people in Colonial costumes and
stopped to hear songs played with a hammered dulcimer.
Dinner was Tony Luke’s, a small steel structure surrounded
by chain link fence, wedged under the Walt Whitman Bridge
Cheesesteaks with onions and wiz never tasted so good.
We kicked a soccer ball in the empty parking lot at the new
basketball stadium named after a bank, not the old Spectrum.

Been a while, a long time since we've been back.

In the game, the Sixers and Wizards dueled it out on the court.
It was April, both teams had no chance of seeing the playoffs.
We sat in the cheaper seats, marveling at the three pointers of
Arenas, gasping at Iverson’s crossover dribble magic, high fiving
strangers and the old black guy next to us who shouted loudly-
C’mon now AI don’t let Gilbert show you up, not in your house.

Been a while, a long time since we've been back.


Meet me in the living room, it’s almost nine.
You know where to find me, I’ll be in my chair

The weekend is over, but it’ll be fine.
Others think about Monday, but I don’t care.

Tony Soprano had to bump off his friends,
but we don’t know if he got it in the end.

Dick Winters, Nixon, Guarnere- Band of Brothers
greatest generation, braver than others.

Stringer Bell, cops couldn't get him on The Wire,
in the game until Omar opened fire.

Nucky gives orders, runs his Boardwalk Empire
greed, corruption, a professional liar.

Game of Thrones, poor Rob Stark, rotten King Joffrey
found out weddings are deadly places to be.


I was probably 3 or 4 when
she first encouraged me to
create art, always plenty of
markers, crayons, paper.
And I love her for that.

I was probably 5 or 6 when
she first taught me to
love plants, flowers like
forsythia, hyacinths, lilacs.
And I love her for that.

I was probably 7 or 8 when
she first pushed me to
read books, thick books on
history, animals, mythology.
And I love her for that.

I was probably 9 or 10 when
she said nothing as he turned
his anger on me, wish she’d
said “Stop”, that first time.

And I can’t forgive her for that.


Wish I had one more chance
for one more game with him.
The only time we ever went.
Should’ve asked a guy to take a
photograph of me with my father,
way up high in Neyland Stadium.

Wish I had one more chance
to snap a photo of the 106,000 fans
in orange, singing Rocky Top as the
Pride of the Southland Band forms
a big T for the team to run through,
led by everyone’s hero,Johnny Majors.

Wish I had one more chance
to get a picture of Carl Pickens,
star wide receiver, stretching out in
the famous checkerboard end zone.
I still hear the call of “Give him 6!”

and the howl of the blue tick hound.