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Friday, December 19, 2008

A Ton of Bricks II

Wall fall down go BOOM. Fortunately no one was seriously hurt, but three families are now made homeless, during Christmas no less. I am finally away from work for the Holidays. My thoughts, prayers and wishes are with my friends and partners in ERT. To recap the year would be a tough row to hoe for me now. My best year professionally, my worst to see my Dad pass away. My 50th birthday. My wife, so beautifual and smart, writing her dissertation. Our friends moving onward and upward in their lives. My mom hanging in there, muddling through somehow. We are very fortunate. So very fortunate. We have jobs, and income and a roof over our heads, and enough Godiva to last till Valentines day. We'll be heading South soon to spend the high Holidays with Jennifer's family in Virgina. Wishing you all a bountious and peaceful new year full of hope. Follow your Bliss to joy.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

A Ton of Bricks


How do I grow old

Working with such little men

With such narrow views of the world

While the ghosts of all my girlfriends

Sit beside me

Waiting for their kiss

Am I not a little man

With my own narrow view

Wanting to be kissed

By those sprites

Those spirits

Of delight

How do I grow old

With my limitations

And debilitations



Subjugations and



Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Forward, March

Seven days ago, we elected a new president in an historic confirmation of faith in the American system. November 4th also would have been my father's 78th birthday party. Today, we celebrate the veterans of War who have sacrificed to serve our nation in times of dire need.

I abhor war. Yet the men and women who fight for my freedom are my brothers and sisters. Thus, the cruel dichotomy of modern living splits me in two on the subject. I want to thank my friends and family for their outpouring of love during our time of grief. I want to thank the soldiers.

Two months have now passed. I think of my father everyday as I have done most of my life. The feeling that he is now with me in my experience of life is an inextricable part of my consciousness. Today, Veteran’s Day, I cannot help but think of Fathers and War. Theatrically we have seen two very different productions featuring soldiers. One called "Black Watch" at St. Ann's Warehouse about a squad of Scottish warriors and their experience in Iraq, and an inter-active theatre installation called "Surrender" at the Ohio Thater in SOHO, where ordinary citizens get a quasi taste for what it was like doing house to house, room to room searches in a town outside of Bahgdad.

One word of caution should you think of participating in "Surrender", remember the phrase:

"Your recruiter lied!"

You've been warned.

My work at the NYC Buildings Department also moves forward. I feel I am doing a great service to my community by continuing to train new inspectors. Yet, I lament the sacrifice of my artist self. However, I feel expressed in a different way. I am working to impress upon a group of men and women that what they do makes a tremendous difference in the world of the New and Improved New York City. Even though, for me, the place I call "my home town," resembles more and more a never ending episode of Sex in the City where I am not even visible to the twenty something’s and thirty something’s living out their dreams and fantasies on my city streets. My job is to keep them safe; to make responsible the callous and careless contractors and building owners; to prevent squalor and poverty from spreading; to protect people from the horrors we create though ignorance, or greed, or malice; to maintain fairness and evenness despite the acts of politicians to deny us our equal rights. (I've cancelled the trip to California. We won't be spending any money there.)

This shit keeps me going. I love life more than ever. I am a warrior for the hedonistic principles of Pleasure. The stock market has crashed, wars rage around the globe and here at home and there's only one thing left to do: Have a party. Like it's 1999!!!

Monday, September 8, 2008

My Dad is Dying

To everything there is a season...David J Ransom
November 4th, 1930-September 8th, 2008

It has been a very long, wonderful summer. We, my beautiful wife and I, did many a fun thing from kayaking in Rock Hall to frolicking on Gunnison Beach at Sandy Hook. I passed my 50th milestone in grand celebratory fashion and now another life changing moment looms. My long suffering pop is drawing his last labored breaths as I write. And here with you my stragers, family, fans and friends, I contemplate the man, his life and suffering. I am his only son. Not to wax maudlin or macabre, here follow words inspired by and dedicated to him. This is his song from me, I who have uttered and written so many words to he who has said and written so few. I would carry his burden for him if I could. His pain has been passed on and it is a beautiful, sublime pain. The pain of bewilderment, of mystery, of love.

Fallen through the cracks
slipping through the bars
fought off heart attacks
sleeping in his car

enduring the pain
of going insane
finding our way
back through the rain
through the rain

Splashed in the gutter
and scaled the heights
been good for nothing
and bad for spite

now here we stand
naked as the day we were born
drowning our sorrow
with booze and porn

chased by our demons
through most of hell
listened to the stories
of how he fell

hollow inside
like a buffalo horn
swallowing our pride
with booze and porn

remembering the days
of hot summer nights
heavy petting displays
at every red light

sick and tired of waiting
hopeless and forlorn
gonna find a young lady
who's into booze and porn

We did, at least once, all the things fathers and sons do, and did some that were maybe a bit unusual. He was there for my first Guinness, fed me my first steamer clam in a Bayonne bar, took me for my first ride on a scaffold, gave the taste for lobster, vodka, baseball, fishing for catfish and so on. For him I am a Yankee fan, and a football Giant fan, and a fan of the South and a southern gentlmen. My father is as flawed and human as a man can be. There was high life he aspired to and low life he indulged in and we have shared it all. He was always there with a twenty whenever I needed it. He taught me how to drive a nail, and cut slate by hand, how to bend copper and tie a hitch. He showed me the ropes by example and how hard work is, and what work is, and what sorrow is. And there is strength. A deep and poetic strength which bore all manner of hardship. There of those of you who knew him in his salad days; knew the ruffian, the swashbuckling cowboy who loved the movies and lived them as if they were real. There are those who knew him as an elderly man sober as Job who religiously watched those same movies from his chair day after day. Now I wish, and have always wished, his pain could be lessened, his spirit healed. A man of practically no words, but of action that to this day and for many more to come has and will inspire me to create art in his name. The D in MDRansom is for David. I am his son, his buddy. For ill or good I will always love him for he is my father. David Jude Ransom. What we have shared defies explanation. Dear lord, I pray, recieve your broken son, and make him whole in death as he was in the beautiful youth of his life.

"He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again."

Saturday, August 2, 2008

August, Oh, August

Notes From Underground

I feel the hot breath

Of a city


Up and down my back


I roam

Streets of stone

In search of

A heart attack

As home left me

Or I

Left home

We said good bye

And never looked back


Last Night


Was a pretty girl

My tongue did a twirl

Around her sweet pearl

She came, and She came

As She wept

Then she slept

Hair like gossamer

Skin like a whisper

Moan like a blade

That could kill ya

Her lips so soft

Her legs held aloft

She tastes like Stoli vanilla


Alone on a train

No one to blame

For sweat and


Of August

On track underground

With hell and the sound

Of memory

That will forever

Dog us

Thursday, July 31, 2008 an Open Door

Love is an open door

Loves door unlocked and ajar

Invites me ever out

Or in

To your room

Where I stretch across

Your bed


My open wound

Never to heal

No salve or dressing

To staunch that flow

Nothing to fill

This chasm

Love is an open door

High on a sheer face

Thrown open wide where

Transparent drapes

Flow out

Into the blue

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Life is just a...

Life Is Just A Dress Shop Window

Full of pretty colors

And delicate fabric

Inviting imagination

Arousing inspiration

On short summer

Nights of quiet


Full of stories of reflection

And heated promises

Broken before dawn

Desire described

In embroidery

Traced over

Breasts and buttocks

Marking the place

Of origin

Muted and serene

Festive and pious

Bangles and baubles

And all things

Beautiful, bountiful

Dark and mysterious

As women are wont

Aloof and untouchable

As that part of man’s heart

They haunt

Monday, July 14, 2008

I do not like Green Eggs and Ham

7/14/08 Crash and Burn

This familiar melancholy wraps its roots deeply around my heart pulsating with each beat; tightening in my chest until I can barely breathe. I play music to fuel this passion, this longing for my girl; even though she is right here, I miss her. I must always miss someone, a woman someone, a woman I cannot possess. She thinks she is mine, but she knows only the surface of things. In reality, my mood has little to do with her. I feel worse knowing I will bring her down. I feel failure. I feel it is somehow my fault that two individuals may not be inspector material. Is this not ridiculous? This must be the down side of pedagogy. Failure was not an option, not even considered. I thought: Well, I’ve done it, anyone can do it. I have sorely underestimated this entire thing. What am I doing? I question it all, everything now. I am in pain and I feel old. Feeling sorry for myself was something I had gotten over about ten years ago, when I started with the Department. I do not like this feeling. Not one bit.

Sunday, July 13, 2008

So long, Bobby Murcer...

7/13/08 Flying High

The weather has just turned glorious as if July and June transposed themselves without telling anyone. Still working like a dog and no time for us except we went to see Cher, Ty, and baby TJ in Branford and that was fun, got the Lenny/Rimage haircut too and saw Starry Night again. It had been awhile. There she sat in the Yale University Art Gallery. While Jen-Scott got color, I got teary eyed at the muted night of Van Gogh’s. We are planning a return visit before the exhibition ends in September. August promises to be vacation month. We are laying the ground work to escape down south for a week, ten days. All Star Game. Wow, where is the summer going. In honor of Yankee Stadium’s last season, I bought a hat and the Jason Giambi jersey. Bobby Murcer, I remember seeing him hitting a home run in Yankee stadium. I swear he tom-a-hawked the ball. And we all came to know and love him as the kind gentle broadcaster who never missed a beat. The universe certainly works in such mysterious ways. You know Murcer would never want to upstage the mid-summer classic, rememberances will flow this coming Tuesday. Bobby, we hardly knew ye.

Sunday, July 6, 2008

Let the World Take Note

7/6/08 The Pilot Program

Eight weeks ago, I announced the commencement of an Inspector Training Pilot Program with the department. Tomorrow marks the completion of those eight weeks, and though the program shows no signs of ending, I am taking the opportunity to note the accomplishment of many and the disappointment of some. When we began (Damon, Lloyd and I) were very gung-ho and excited. We are still as committed today as we were May 12th though we have encountered numerous obstacles to the achievement of our goals, namely to provide the very best atmosphere for quality training, and we have had to deal with our limitations of time, space and equipment. All in all, I am very proud of the way we have handled all of the day to day problems involved with an endeavor of this scope. We have been, in my opinion, fully utilized. I have averaged 72.25 hours a week for the past month of June, a month in which I celebrated my 50th birthday. As I take stock this morning, I see how the concentration on my passions, namely poetry, song and theatre, have completely taken a back seat to the more practical and mundane office of training new inspectors. As ever, I am seeking balance. Rehearsals for Small Craft Warnings begin next month. I have about a hundred and fifty headshots waiting to be sent out and need to think about ordering more. The banjo and the guitar both gather dust. I cannot tell you what’s in our ice box. To decompress over the last 8 weeks we’ve taken in the new Indian Jones flick (Nuke the fridge!), and a reading of a new play by an exciting unknown playwright Joe Musso: Blood Water about Post Katrina New Orleans. To say the least the last eight weeks have been often demanding and even grueling at times. I feel exhausted, elated and frustrated. Last night we took in Neil Labute’s latest offering: reasons to be pretty. It was good to be in a theater again watching interesting work. I miss all my friends with whom we spent far too little time on my birthday. I miss long summer days with nothing to do but go to the gym and learn a new play. My candle burns now at both ends and in the middle but it's all for the cause: Independence?

Saturday, June 28, 2008

Hail and Well Met, (or Male and Hell Wet)

6/28/08 The Week

This is my wife singing me Happy Birthday. Isn’t she hot? The week I turn 50 brings so many changes. We have a new director at work. The training of new inspectors continues…meaning I’m working 78 to 80 hours a week minimum. To top it all off I have been made a member of the White Horse Theater Company and cast in their upcoming production of: Small Craft Warnings by Tennessee Williams. The play will see 16 performances this Fall in New York City. So, it seems not much is slowing down for the old man; not in the very least.


I want to run naked

And free

But I am bound

By these threads of propriety


You stand

Just beyond reach


Torturing me

Sunday, June 8, 2008

Near Death

6/8/08 WOW…Time…where does it go? Yesterday was the all day Saturday tour. I walked to work in the cool 63 degree morning. A fog of mist hung low on the horizon obscuring the new day from view. I felt thrown back to the time of Walt Whitman and so in the Whitman-esque style, I offer this to you my loyal loving followers:

Crossing Brooklyn Bridge

As I walked along

Brooklyn Bridge

Her gothic arches

By fog and mist

Obscured and dodged

I reach mid-span

Surrounded by

Neither city nor River

Standing on a plank

Over forever

With a playful spirit

Urging me

Across the steel

Nudging me to leap

Without note or word

Into the Void

T’was not the unknown

Stayed me, but knowledge

Of perplexed distress

And profound sadness

Caused to those

Left behind

So, I’ve chosen to return

And report

A ghostly ramp

Of the Gods


Hidden in plain sight

Awaiting us always

Inviting flight

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

More Subway Poetry

So Far

I wanna bop to a walking Bass

Like the beats

Meet between the sheets

With my best friend and his wife

Like back

When the world was Kerouac-ed

Sing swing daddy-o

Back when Jack was short

For John and had nothing to do

With Car or Lo

Or Hi

My muse spies me

And hides

Loves to fuck with me

When my hands are busy but my ADD

Has my mind free to be captured

My arm wrapped around

A silver pole in a hole moving fast past

Darkness streaked with red, white, yellow

and green

Pleading men proliferate around paydays

Dragging a wagon of sandwiches

Along well worn linoleum floors

My pockets are full of space but

At least I hold the door for him

As he moves

Between cars and tells his story walking

Like a Bass the beats used to bop to

Next stop to

Work like a working class


Slow and steady along the shaft

My raft in a pool of forever-ness

My hands still operate on the principle

Of pleasure and for that I am


as in gratefull, dig?

I f I could only some way touch you

Some way penetrate the masquerade

Dress down like the prince of shades

With jade for my tongue



Diamonds for my eyes (or pearls)


Joo-joo bs

Popcorn; chocolate covered pretzels; twizlers

I want to bop till I drop

To a walking Bass

And a Saxophone

Blowing solo alone

As I speak my tome about burning Rome

Hey muse, see you at home

Saturday, May 24, 2008

Memorial Day 2008

5/24/08 HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM! 79 years strong. Well the first two weeks of the training program have been completed. We have six inspectors in training, they all are doing well, and I expect each of them to go on to do the job. We get a new recruit Tuesday. I feel at last like I am living my life fully. I am able to express myself everyday, I am able to pass along my knowledge and respect and passion for my job. I am able to let my partners know how I feel about them without it seeming out of place. I’ve lost about six pounds of the winter insulation (aka FAT), though my abdominal muscles are still reluctant to take their former positions in the washboard type style the ladies love. How crazy does this Memorial Day weekend sound? We are heading to New Haven for haircuts, then down to Hightstown for mom’s 79th. Tomorrow we head to Wainscot to break in Dee Dee’s new summer palace of luxury and fun, (this is where I wish I had the washboard abs). I am anticipating nakedness as we hot tub, swim and steam our way to Monday. Oh, yes, I have worked it out to have a three day weekend, like a normal person. Then we are invited to Lori and Damon’s in Merrick. Last night we were lured into CafĂ© on Clinton by the promise of Absinthe. The green fairy delighted us and the food was rich and exotic. Blue point oysters, a soft shell crab slider, a salad and a cheese plate had us slipping off the diet in fine fashion. Matt, the bartender, took extremely good care of us. We will be back. So here it is. I have checked in with those of you far flung friends and relations. Steven Rahe, where are you? Give us a call. Routh...? The time is near, dear, for a reunion. Sea, and Dom, what's going on?

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Time to Blog

A new pilot program at the Department of Buildings where the night time inspectors teach/train new inspectors begins Monday May 12th. I am the lead guy meaning I will be at work every day at 7:30 am (on overtime of course)Monday through Friday to give a class room lesson (prepared by moi)before breaking into groups to give practical inspection training in the field. The course runs eight weeks. (So far, on the phase one of SB I have lost 3.5 lbs and feel great.) I am looking forward to this 8 week regimen. It will be an absolute challenge. I won't finish with my trainees until around 5pm where upon I will either return home or begin my regular shift with the DOB. I've been so excited about this I can't sleep! Hopefully, that will cease soon enough. I'm sure it will. Photo to left is of my locker at work. Not much room in there between equipment, uniform and sundries. Now that I have virtually no or very little time to write...Poetry is just exploding in my head. I'll try to get some of it down in time for the B'day bash!

Sunday, May 4, 2008

The Wistful and The Tragic

“As part of its Walking Tour issue, Time Out NY this week serves up an unintimidating plan for tackling the sights of Green-wood Cemetery. A few of the stops on their suggested route include the grave of Bill the Butcher, a bust of Horace Greeley and the Steinway family mausoleum. Any must-see personal faves from readers?” For more see: Who says there is nothing to do in Brooklyn?

My sincerest apologies go out to those who regularly check this site for the status of things with us in Brooklyn. The April 22nd departure of our beloved Commissioner Lancaster has depressed me greatly. No, she did not die, but suffered mortal political wounds and finally was prompted to resign her commission. When I began with the department almost ten years ago, only a few inspectors carried cameras and those were more likely to be Polaroid than anything else. Now digital cameras are standard issue for every inspector. That is but the least example of how Patricia J Lancaster F.A.I.A. transformed our agency from the reputed “Political backwater” into a modern competitive department. Our challenge remains, yet overall hangs the wasteful pall of politics.

The devastating crane accident still reverberates, shakes, and vibrates through the halls of movers and shapers of our city. Nothing small dare happen here. This is truly the BIG town. When we have a catastrophe, it has to be nightmarish. In a way, I am purging myself here on this page. The pain and utter failure of that event haunts me. It was not just one fault to bring the crane down, but a tragic series, a witches brew, of improbable events that led to the worst crane accident since Bridget Gurney was trapped for hours on a mid-town sidewalk beneath a collapsed machine. Then, as now, we were in the midst of a building boom leaving us scrambling to man the guns. Heads have, indeed, rolled and our commissioner’s was one of them.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

DD B'day and Fund Raiser

Big Head Todd and the Monsters rocked the Core Club last night, but not before singing Happy Birthday to Dee Dee Ricks of Ricks and Ray Partners. Dee Dee not only celebrated her birthday but auctioned off a Maserati, amoung other things, to raise money for the Ralph Lauren Cancer Center in Harlem.

After screening a documentary in the making about Dee Dee's own ordeal with breast cancer, we were treated to cocktails and canapes as Big Head coverd Zeppelin, Clapton, James Brown (the Godfather of Soul), Jimmy Hendrix and Old Blue Eyes, Frank Sinatra. He also played his own hits including "Broken Hearted Savior".

Friday, April 18, 2008

More More More Poetry

I am not a slammer

I am not a slammer

I do not spew vocal verisimilitude

With attitude

To you and you

My style will not capture your imagination


I believe

Your imagination

Was born and deserves

To be free

I am not a word programmer

I do not seek to explain or entertain

I do not assign blame

Or accept shame

My delivery is not silvery smooth

There is no monster groove

There is nothing to improve

I do not rhyme

There is no time

Not that I don’t have the time

I just contend

That time does not exist

I simply persist to resist

I am there fore

I speak

I am not a slammer

Or a fighter

Or a competitor

Not a matador

I am here to collaborate

To accentuate

To propagate

To fornicate

With your


Thursday, April 17, 2008

SPRINGING from "This is a VERY Sexy Place Department"

Last night was a laugh at SAMPLE. Jen and Ken were having a post dinner cocktail and I was invited to join. For those of you who don't know SAMPLE is one of Smith Street’s intimate wine and Cheese bars home to a loyal following of nefarious lounge lizards, students, professors, and Met's fans. I have a particular, shall we say fondness for the proprietor, Maya, whose elfin charm and dreamy smile infuse the libations with an air of sensuality worthy of her creation. Jen and I put on quite a show I think. It was hard to tell. SPRING and something else was in the air. We usually go there during Happy Hour on a Sunday, but last night we heard "Last Call" for the first time in a cat's age. If you want to sample SAMPLE, take the F to Bergen Street. Be in the last car of the train. Take the left staircase as you exit the station. Make a right and past the Dunkin Donuts, you should note a sandwich board with the daily specials written in colored chalk. Tell Maya I said...I am an...

April Fool

Welcome, Goddess, to your day, your week, your month.

This is the spirit of the night that writes to remind that

You who gives love and joy to the world.

Receive her bounty and take from her pleasure.

In lands fraught with all the ugliness of war, disease and hate,

I have been more blessed with your beauty than I can express or relate

And you, bright star in the sky of Earth's natural splendor,

I do not define, I remind; I just say what you have given,

You define yourself, powerful woman,

Whom I would rather have the love of

Than respect of man.


The reason I did not have dinner with Jen and Ken was because I was at the QP (Quiet Party) held again at the upstairs of Madame X on Houston. This floating gathering draws a regular crowd of smart, sexy, urban adventurers willing to try just about anything. You can have a great time just reading the leftover cards. The QP, a brain child of Artists Paul Rebhan and Tony Noe is enjoying its ninth year and has spread to places all over the world. This event repeats periodically. Check out their site for the latest.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Hail and Well Met



Having been young more than once

Nobody wants to grow old

Least of all me,

I would like to savor my childhood

In late recognition of that gauche position

Opposition to my outward appearance

Silent in the face of furious catastrophe

Casual stakes at a game of dice in Harlem

Vetted tales of turbulence within the hollow

Illegal single room occupancy of my mind…

There is no heat in the winter and no cool

Water will not flow through pipes choked

With lead, rust, and about a dozen other

Toxins which wait to be discovered

Neatly deposited deep within my body ready for recycling

The cellar floor made down of damp clay-like dirt

Which when the washing machine overflows

Or stinging deluges from up north fall in barrels

Or when high tide creeps over our sea wall…

I sink down to my hips without a sound that sucks

Like Mud-cats, bottom feeding at Willow Brook Pond

My father drunk asleep with the car door open

A can of Bud still in his hand

I fish with the corn kernels and Pillsbury dough

Of our quality Saturday morning

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

POEM 4 Today

It's National Poetry Month and in honor of all who put pen to page in a creative way, even though I leave now for work for a few days I leave you with this:

Work Day

We arrive in the neighborhood


Before Dawn sometimes

Shortly after local

Night-owls have gone

To sleep

Too soon to start work

Yet preparations

Need to be

Must be made

Silent as Monks we

Make precise, measured


Any disruption of which

Draws grumbles of


From grizzled old


Brick must be stacked

Just so

With-in the individual reach

Of each man

Mortar mixed just so

Not wet like slop

Nor dry like clay

But tempered to

The humidity

Of our present day

I am young

Even if the world

Is not so

We take care and are aware

of danger in every inattentive step

But when you look around

from on high

at the glittering jewel of a city

your heart pounds just a little harder

to know your stone and your mortar

are now part of this Manhattan

And I live for 8 O’clock

in the morning

When I can be

Out On West 71st Street

To watch that beautiful

Woman walk her dog

her claves golden

in high heeled sunrise

her smile warm and inviting

my youth growing

between my thighs

I clutch my paper cup of coffee

And live for her

And the rest

Of the morning show

Monday, April 14, 2008

From the "NOW...You Get Nothing!" Department

Quarrel: With the West Side Stadium plan long dead and buried it seems the Rail Yards in Manhattan are destined to remain desolate and undeveloped. From the DOB Press briefing we read:

West Side Redevelopment Plans Appear in Disarray

The New York Times reported that plans to transform the warehouses, factories, parking lots and railroad tracks between Pennsylvania Station and the Hudson River into a high-rise business district are in disarray. Because of the economic downturn, logistical problems and design flaws, the expansion of the Javits Center has died, the plan to rebuild Penn Station and the area around it is in jeopardy and there are deep questions about financing, public and private, to extend the subway or build over the rail yards. Many urban planners, architects, community leaders and developers say the downtown may have a silver lining, providing an opportunity for the city to rethink and reconfigure sweeping proposals many of them had doubts about all along.

POEM 4 2day:

Re: Buke

I wish my arms

were longer

I wish my legs were


So as better

To wrap myself

Around you

I am short


I have a thick cock


A loving heart.