ROADSIDE SHRINES

If I run the light at the corner
of Racetrack and Summerhill Roads,
don’t hang up my photo on the side
of the street with my birthday and
the date of my life tragically ended.

If I get run off the snowy highway
by a drunk driver on Route 18, don’t
hang a bunch of Mylar balloons or flowers
on the little green and white mile marker.

If I fall asleep at the wheel while traveling
and hit a telephone pole on Route 13,
don’t erect a little white wooden cross
with candles or a statue of a tiny cherub.

Don’t tie ribbons and stuffed animals
to the tree, if I whack into it hurrying
home from work in the summertime
at the fork, by the curve, near the patch
of woods by Dutch Road and Fresh Ponds.

Instead, go to the places that made me
the happiest, that is where you can leave
notes, a poem, a picture of me, a message
to puzzle a passerby who stops to read-

“This is where he lived;
this is where he loved,
this is what he’ll miss;
this is where we think of him”.

THE GOOD BOOK

Last week something came over him.
Strange ideas, felt like reading the Bible,
but he didn’t know where he had put
the one from his days in Sunday School.
Maybe he’d get one from the hotel room
this summer when he traveled to DC.

It was clear, he mustn’t wait that long.
In the book store he found the Religious
shelves next to the Inspirational section
on the back wall near the restrooms.
Like the bread aisle, too many choices.

Pink and green ones with flowers,
award or recognition Bibles given
at church for promotion to the next level.
A Mossy Oak camouflage Bible for $24,
a Kelly green one labeled Celtic, companion books
for the Bible on CD rom, genuine black leather.
King James Version, the New King James Version,
a portable long and slender book to fit in a handbag,
a Catholic Bible, easy to read text, full color maps of
the Holy Lands, the words of Jesus Christ in red.

He settled for a small plain brown book,
with gold block letters, HOLY BIBLE.
Even though he always thought it should
be black, for some reason or another.
He wanted to carry it with him easily,
keep it inside his jean jacket pocket while
driving, in case he got hit by a truck or bus.

He felt strange spending so much time
deliberating, but he wanted the best one
for himself, it was then that he felt that
people must be looking at him, wondering
what was taking the Jesus Freak so long?
to pick out a Bible, it was all overwhelming.

At that moment, a couple of teenagers
happened to laugh while walking by him and
growing paranoid, he jumped to conclusions
and shouted, “What the hell you laughing at?
Can’t a man buy a friggin’ Bible if he wants?”

PAYBACKS

He cut back on the gifts,
avoided trips to the mall
sat in front of his computer,
got what he needed this way.

A gift to himself was to pay off
a credit card, eliminate the debt
that’s haunted him for decades.
And when he hit the send button,
a feeling of freedom washed over
him, the greatest of holiday gifts.

A week later, the final statement
arrives and he rips it open to finally
see the elusive zero balance.
But he finds $7.94 on the statement
instead, some leftover fee, interest.

His plan now is to fix those jerks,
get even by sending a $10 check,
then they’ll have to take the time to
send a refund, a way to get even.
His wife calmly reminded him-
It’s not like there is a person on the
other end that’ll get upset by this.
He nodded silently, writing it anyway.

IMAGES - http://www.allaboutcookware.org/

HISTORY'S CLASSROOM

The principal assured the students that
they were watching history, like she did
as a child, the assassinations of the Kennedys
Dr. King’s speech, Neil Armstrong on the moon.
She promised them they’d never forget watching
this speech and asked, “How many of you think
that you’d like to be President of America one day?
Hands rose up quickly with I do, oh yes, and me.

She stayed home from work today with her son
and sat on the sofa watching CNN, drinking coffee
from her Barack Obama mug, while proudly
wearing her Si podemos long sleeve gray t-shirt.
She wanted to enjoy the day and knew it’d be
ruined if she had to deal with jerks making comments.

A barber went to work today and told his
joke about how Washington is on the dollar bill,
Lincoln is on the five dollar bill, and now we
have a President to put on the Food Stamps!
He felt very old and uncomfortable when
the customers didn’t find it as humorous as he did.

A teacher in a school district that can’t seem
to get cable, tunes in the speech on her clock radio
and the children all huddle around concentrating
on every word, just like when FDR was sworn in.

His head covered snow white with age nods as
his new President highlights our country’s past,
a history lesson for others, a lifetime for him.
His wife of 40 years seated next to him adds
uh huhs and yeses like it’s a Sunday sermon
confirming that she is indeed a true believer.

She went to work today,
(even though she threatened to move to Canada)
wearing all black and a button to protest the election
of a man that she believes will get the troops killed
and she tells everyone that they should all be sent
to fight in Iraq for America when this happens.
People don’t respond, as they know about her son
and his unit being sent back for another tour of duty.

And when the397 kids sat flat on their bottoms,
criss-cross applesauce on the gym floor and watched
the tape an hour later, fast forwarded to the swearing in
because they wouldn’t be able to sit still through
Aretha Franklin, Yo Yo Ma, Itzhak Perlman, and Joe Biden.
They cheered and chanted, like they were on the Mall in DC
with the millions, and they didn’t get all that was being said
or the full magnitude of the event, but their hearts soared
with joy and even said, “Thank you for letting us watch that.”

IMAGE- http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/picturegalleries

SUITS AND TIES

swirl around me as
I anchor my blue denim- self
to the dull green sofa of
the DC hotel lobby.
Each one buying overpriced
strawberry and cheese Danish
with coffee that tastes burned.
Each one asks for a receipt
in order to enjoy the full
pleasure of an expense report.
Women in fancy pants,
little black jackets, partially wet hair
chat on cell phones while waiting
for coworkers who will all
feel compelled to ask each other-
“Did you sleep o.k.?”

OUR ART TEACHER

A great American artist died today,
who I thought was already dead and
I think of you, the lessons you gave us.
The lost art of calligraphy, sumi painting,
firing sculpture, value studies, sketchbooks,
drawings of Norman, the wooden man.

We were on your mind for six years,
you knew us, our stories, our plans
our problems at home with parents.
And when we became cynical, sarcastic,
bitter and jaded by life at sixteen,
you snapped us out of it, took us away to
Rodin’s Thinker, showed us Mary Cassatt,
let us run up the steps like Rocky Balboa
but reminded us, walk quietly in the
ancient halls of armor and weaponry.

You made things happen, four hours
on a bus, MOMA, the Guggenheim,
St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and on that night
in the horse and carriage, looking up
little snowflakes fell between the buildings
of Fifth Avenue, the world felt beautiful.

Annual trips, Delaware each Christmas,
the huge hairy pig, the boy in the cap,
massive murals, classic book illustrations,
the Wyeth family, up close and personal.
Browns, tans, grays, studies in light
like the Brandywine landscapes surrounding
the gunpowder museum, DuPont’s mansion.

You invited us to your home for Christmas parties
celebrating our efforts, our time, our works of art
created after school in Art Service, silkscreen projects
advertisements, programs for special events all funding
the trips, the parties, all of us together back then.

You with no husband, no children of your own,
you had all of us to take care of, to worry about.
Now when I look above my desk, hanging in front of me
I see Erickson alone in his kitchen, looking to his backyard
I hope that you’re not alone, unaware of your impact.

THE COLDEST DAY OF MY LIFE

is how Pop always remembered
the Army-Navy game we went to,
every first Saturday in December
old JFK Stadium in Philadelphia,
it’s half way between academies.

Winds swirled, the sun refused
to shine, dilapidated wooden planks
for seating, too splintered, too hard,
unwelcoming, untamed by wool
red, gray, black tartan plaid,
blankets or square seat cushions.

Darkness fell, winds blew colder.
Standing, shifting side to side
two rows from the top, treated
to a side show to rival the circus,
making the football game secondary.

Cadets in flannel gray stole the
little white Billy goat and took
him into the tunnels below, while
a paper Mache battleship built
over a golf cart cruised the track
around the gridiron and ran over
Army megaphones, tables lined with
plastic drinking cups of Gatorade.

The band from Annapolis played
“Anchor’s Away” and crowds of
Naval cadets in dark blue pea coats
jumped to their feet to sing along.
Minutes later, revenge from the
other side, as a Sherman tank
comes up the tunnel, everyone
stopped, everyone knew, it’s no float.
Massive gears and tracks turned,
headed for the toy boat, to get even.

Midshipmen jumped out, scattered
running for cover, knowing the tank
had no intentions to stop, because
“The Army Goes Rolling Along.”
And after the game, some asked
“Hey, who won the game?” while
others spoke about the “wicked cold”.

WHITE LABEL FOR BREAKFAST

No wonder my wife left me.
Hangin’ out, drinkin’ shots,
singing the oldies but goodies,
CBS FM baby, playin’ them all,
“you don’t have to be a star, baby”,
buyin’ rounds for my brothers
from the Sanitation Department.

How do you like that?
They’re still workin’ and I’m payin’?

Since my last DWI, got a new job
workin’ for some warehouse
up in West Orange for some hippies
twenty years younger than me.

Problem is, I can’t stop.
Can’t stop rememberin’, drinkin’,
shootin’ my mouth off, cryin’.

Let me tell you somethin’-
If the Pabst Blue Ribbon Plant was
still open, I’d walk up that hill and
get me a good job tomorrow morning.

Nothin’ for nothin’-
I miss my wife, I miss my father,
I miss my mother,
and I want my son to talk to me.

photo-http://www.irvingtonremembered.org/html/non-irvington.html

MADE THE NEWARK STAR LEDGER

front page no less,
back then I was driving
truck for Brown’s Poultry
in Elizabeth, takin’ chickens,
turkeys to all them big
restaurants and grocery stores.

One day, loading the truck
some dude crashes his fork truck
in the side of the box when he’s
loading and the dumb ass was
smoking a cigarette. Sets off an
explosion with the propane tank.

Blows a hole in the roof of the truck.
Flames shootin’ out six, eight feet
high up in the air, so I jump in the cab
started it up, drove up out the bay.
Trail of smoke and what not,
took it out to the back of the lot,
saved that man’s business,
his family business for 57 years.
Coulda’ lost it all just like that.

I was the hero, old man was hugging
on me, give me $100 bonus, a coupla’
roast ducklings, mighty tasty.
Eyewitness News come down, picture
in the paper, “Chicken Man A Hero”.
A week later, I’m laid off
with a dozen other poor bastards.
Shoulda’ let the sucka’ burn.

AMERICAN STUDIES AT THE DENTIST'S OFFICE

Cranked back in the chair, a drill takes off tiny bits of
thirty two year old fillings, tiny fragments of metal fall
into the pit under my tongue, I try not to swallow, waiting
for the dental assistant to suction it out, to feel at ease.

My dentist has the television on, like he always does
and stops working now and then to catch up on
the storyline or to discuss the deficiencies of certain genre,
to critique the casting choice of Billy Dee Williams
or the blatant agenda and biases of liberal Hollywood.

Today he is particularly irked by the film industry’s need to
justify a villain’s murderous actions or dastardly deeds.
I liked it better when Darth Vader was just plain evil,
but some jerk, some studio executive feels like explaining
it all to me. Let the bad guys be cold blooded killers.

He takes a moment to slip out, to check on other patients
in one of the many rooms, I rinse metallic sediments
little white tooth chips, gobs of blood, saliva with a paper cup.
While I wait for his return, I get to watch the final few minutes
of Star Wars on Spike TV, the one I call Number Six,
but the kids all insist that it’s actually Episode Three.

PHOTO-http://www.bioxd.com/imagenes/darth_vader_kitty.jpg

THE EL CAMINO

has got to be the perfect car to transport flowers
for a funeral, looks pretty sharp with its
polished black paint job and chrome accents
is what I tell my cousin, who just laughs weakly.

No way would a pickup truck look right
or even a Country Squire station wagon.
A final ride down Commerce Street,
over to Broad Street, the center of town.

He’d come to call it home after the War,
economy and industry were strong then,
a need for teachers brought so many
from central Pennsylvania, New York State.

Today these same colleagues follow
the procession in their cars to the Jersey Shore
an hour drive to the old Cold Spring Cemetery.

But when I check my rearview mirror
I see the last ten or twelve cars
making a left into The Hillcrest
for one last round at the Towne Tavern.

WAITING IN THE TRUCK CAB

we look through Auto Shopper magazines
stained with coffee, strewn across
the dashboard with empty Marlboro packs,
Hostess fruit pie wrappers, a worn work glove.
Adjust the wing, flip open the roof hatch
with the hope more air will come in.

Roger, the driver paused between runs
to stop and check on some money
owed to him by a friend, me and Hank wait
in the lot, a South Jersey orchard’s packing shed.

August sunshine always cooks our bodies
working outside, on the road together
we deliver, take down, and set up from
the early morning hours, only half done now,
too much work is waiting for us at the shore.

Hank is getting frustrated, trying to find
some music he can tolerate on the
broken down radio of the Mercedes Benz truck.
He keeps getting old time hymns, organ music,
ranting preachers or black gospel music stations.
Its what you expect on a Sunday morning.

“You boys like Peaches?” he climbs in,
nodding we thank him, and on that day,
I am blessed and cursed simultaneously with
the biggest, roundest, most perfect peach
that I’ve ever seen in my life. Remorsefully I rip
its skin, the flesh opens, juice runs down to my elbow.
I swallow the most life changing fruit since the apple
bitten by Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.

And since that day, almost twenty five years ago,
I cannot find a peach that compares, rivals, or surpasses
the exquisite fruit given to me on Sunday morning.
And like an old man who once had a beautiful woman and
lost her, I can’t stop comparing all fruit to that one.