Stone Lions

train rumbles into spaghetti station 8:20 five minutes late
snow flying cessnas wind biting

people rumble among the crush up the stairs

scattering like pellets from a shotgun shell into the streets

man with a job interview 

rehearsing his qualifications in his head

straightening his tie for the 15th time

somebody else with a trip to the art museum - see the stone lions

picasso, seurat, van gogh

every once in a while

favorite restaurant barbecue ribs, french fries, cole slaw

most of the time a greasy hot dog and a sour stomach

see the mayor strolling by

reflections off the glass icicles falling in wintertime

giant knives falling from the sky

can be deadly if you get bopped on the head

rhythm of the city in quick time quick step

day passes - play hide and seek with the shadows

afternoon paper hits the stands

downtown station, flower shop

dirty floors, dirty windows, dirty people sitting on cracked concrete

channeling their inner charlie parker 

playing a saxophone - case open for donations appreciated

silver train leaves from downtown to suburbs chuga chuga

some stay behind to linger in the darkness and neon

little blues clubs full of people with the blues in them

late night diners full of diners

cheap sandwiches, coffee, cigarettes

better than going home

Railroad Salvage

down a country road from a country road
an old wooden barn looking building

metal front door uneven floor

dented cans no real floor plan

a mishmash of miscellany

courtesy of Penn Central, Milwaukee Road

a hundred other companies boxcars

horrid clothes even the poor didn’t want

did find a pair of blue jeans once

furniture scratched and broken

300 pound dressers with chipped edges 

nightmare nightstands, crooked shelving, dinette sets with 3 chairs

picnic tables with benches guaranteed to put splinters in your ass

you buy it - you haul it, no delivery jack

stereos with ripped speakers

records with scratches

rugs, drapes, even some toys but nothing I played with

railroad salvage sometimes looking more like landfill salvage

knick knacks all knocked around

oddball merchandise to be found

sposed to be damaged while shipping on the train

some looks run over by the train

this is where the poorer people shopped

or people like us that found out about this place on the sly

grandpa knew about this place

he used to work for the railroad back when a lot of men did

Phases

the clouds gathered like mourners at a funeral 

dressed in black and dark gray

the old give way to the young who in turn shall also grow old and give way

the moon goes through phases just as we do, it is natural 

light becomes dark and then dark becomes light

the bad news is that nothing lasts forever 

the good news is that nothing lasts forever 

things generally outlast people

an ancient Indian proverb states that in a tree you can’t climb

there are always a thousand fruits…

- or so it seems anyway

good enough isn’t good enough unless it’s good enough

new year’s eve is fools gold - the next year will be better

oh my god you oughta know better 

I paint, write poetry, watch the rain falling

drink myself into unconsciousness

I don’t know what art is, but then again, I don’t think anyone else does either

in a way, maybe everything is art in one form or another

wander with no destination, wherever the wind takes me

let the others compete with each other I don’t care

it’s a fact of life but still sad to me

that so few in the world seem to find tranquility 

a raindrop falling from a cloud begins fresh journeys

nothing ever ends that once was 

don’t think that you have to climb every mountain 

you don’t need to know the answer to every question

don’t draw any conclusions in permanent marker

the stars look down on us - I wonder what they think

the wind cries, whispers, laughs, mourns and sometimes it abandons us

the answers aren’t always blowing in the wind