"It's about words, and words are all I have…"



We hail from the Ward  just a stones throw away from

where we spent Saturday May 21st   His 96th birthday

Cemetery bound  when his bride began to hack like a Hoover

(yes! she has a sense of humour)


The Ward:  a melting pot of jewish-italian-irish  huddled

masses   The Psych Ward  a place where Buddy Bolden

perfected his coronetsmanship  +a few aunties nestled

beneath couches in the lounge   Ward Cleaver  decidedly

NOT  a member of our family


Emergency Ward  Mt. Sinai:   No milk + honey in sight

Inner city megalith with a 7 foot bleeding madman  perilously

close to bludgeoning our coughing mother   Another inmate

snarling 4 letter epithets  even after being given a cheese sandwich

( and a pen  with which he proceeded to gouge out his eyes)  


No flies on  Mt. Sinai  Oedipus   My exasperated brother  now

almost deaf  said: Zen?  Zen?  What in the hell does that guy know

about Zen?   NO!  not Zen  a PEN!   This day went on until hell

froze over   +Mr. Dybuuk needed to escape from the Jews he was

trifling with


Especially the mother   Coughing like the now endangered  Whooping

Crane   I’m NEVER coming back here again!  The tea is like pishuchtz

she remonstrated   I prayed for a Zen-mind in which to hide  +used arcane

hand signals to induce a trance   Behind dead eyes  my soul had joined father

graveside  where the dead have their own business to do  as do  the living


So what is the business of this dead father?  No longer bound to white tee

shirted angina  seething in suburban fugue state   Cigarette gleaming  long

into dark nights of the soul   Ditto dial of his watch   Glowing green numbers

tick-tock tick-tock  like the croc who ate a clock  now following Captain Hook

for his other hand   Our father’s ticker  counting down the years to infarction



what’s a hospital?  a hospital is just a bunch of 

disconnected buttons, dying people and very sophisticated and

comfortable orderlies. but the whole world is like this:

nobody knows what they are supposed to know –

poets can’t write poetry

whole nations led without leaders, why the whole thing is like

trying to copulate with a wooden

dick… oh pardon me!

(Charles Bukowski: The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses 1969)




SPRING  2017




Single Post Navigation

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: