I Remember James

There are no photos from the early 1990's when a huge turning point took place in my life. I bought a microphone and a PA amp, hooked up an acoustic guitar and declared myself a blues singer. Not because I had any musical talent what-so-ever, but because I was wounded to my core and I needed healing. Having the blues does not make you a great performer, but it can make a so-so performer perform better. And so I took my turn in a down-on-its-luck part of town and played my heart out to a few world weary travelers. This is one of the stories from those days, my lost years. Not because I lost that time in a haze of self induced dementia, but because I was Lost...until I found the Amazing Grace of my current life: my wife, my current job and...and now I see.



I remember James (sweet James)

I remember James
And Alex
Listening
To my blues renditions
Of Sweet Jane
And When the Levee Breaks
At a little joint called Tippy’s
Tippy's cafe

West of the wild side
A guitar
And raw emotion
Inspired by
My personal tragedies
Expressed for the
Intrepid company
Who found a place
Named for
The owner's dog

Maddie May
under age
Tending bar
In a New York
Now long gone
Taking care of
Us All
With Rolling Rock
And a smile
She lit the decadent dark
As a parade of sexy
Rebels
Took place nightly
Right outside

I remember James
As a man of quality
Who cared deeply for
The craftsmen
And integrity

I remember James and
His intensity
How he could not
Tolerate
Mediocrity

I remember James
And his neon blue eyes
That saw only
What could be
When people focused
On perfection
And how that
Would set us free

I do remember James
And that fateful
Night
When he asked me to
stay, linger, and talk
Just for while

But I declined
Siting some
Early work day
With such short sight
For how was I to know
I would be the last to see him
Before he took his life

Dear James,

I will never forget you
I will keep your spirit alive
Singing your song
To everyone
Deep into
The perfect night
 

50 Years Ago

It was 50 years ago today, long before Sargent Pepper taught the band to play, this country went into a tail spin. Deep in my core the wounds suffered then by the ruthless murder of a charismatic man, a man who promised so much, held promise in the palm of his hand, made me a jaded and cynical boy.The first of three devastating assassinations, the first recorded on a visual medium where details of that act of violence can neither be exaggerated nor diminished and thus have become etched unforgettably onto our collective conscious. It was as vicious and cowardly an act as flying air liners into buildings. The price we paid? The turbulence and civil strife of the '60's? The decadence of the '70's? The greed of the '80's and '90's? What happens when faith is shaken? What happens when the dreamer awakens? Roll up your sleeves. There's work to do.

I Miss My Father

I miss my father
In the winter
When bone is chilled
And wind is bitter

I miss my father
In the spring
When he did
Make his hammer sing

I miss my father
In the summer
When this city
Sweats in swelter

But I miss my father
Most of all
When green leaves turn
In the fall

My dad was not a veteran, too young for WW II, too old for Vietnam...his wars were fought at home...with his demons.

Theater as Classroom

Listen

how my heart moves

when you are near


feel...see...right

here




I have decided to take my study of theater to the source this season. Starting with the great production of Glass Menagerie, by Tennessee Williams; quite possibly our American Shakespeare, then diving into a total immersion of Bard-olatry with Donmar's Julius Caesar at St. Ann's, then to a symposium at the Pearl on Shakespeare's verse, then to Macbeth most appropriately on Halloween as this heavily tech-ed up version not only includes all the witches and Hecate, but they and their minions become a featured attraction. Then to the sublime and period authentic Mark Rylance in Richard the III. True students should not miss one of the two productions in rep at the Belasco (a great theater for Shakespeare). Every detail of a Shakespearean era play "Striving for Authenticity" is considered from fabric to musical instruments.

My further study coming soon is to see Waiting for Godot with Patrick Stewart, Ian McKellen, Billy Cruddup and Shuler Hensley...then on to the Public Theater's reprisal of Good Person of Szechwan by Brecht, rounded off with the Mark Rylance and Stephen Fry Twelfe Night.


After that...I think I can call it a semester.




Happy Birthday in Heaven Dad.

Tattoos on a Hirsute Man

Intricate and subtle
Fine Filigreed lines
Bold brush strokes depicting
Ocean voyages
Sea monsters and
Mermaids

Acts of noble heroism
Chivalrous and kind
Bravery of every ilk
Adventures dangerous
Terrors terrible

Suffered and faced down
By knight and Vassal alike

Stories told in colored
Ink

Bad is Beautiful
RIP Da
4 Ever Love
Mother Rose
Lucky
Skull and Cross Bones
Jolly Roger
Stars and Bars
Eagle sharpens his claws
Talons of mercy
Sons of Anarchy
Celtic Cross
The Boss

All

My nature
By nature

Concealed

"Unreal city...Teru..."

Some say T.S. Elliot was pretentious and verbose and that may well be true. This amalgamation or words into a line seems to effectively convey my emotions during yesterday's trip over the Williamsburg bridge. Eliot wrote about 19th century London. I experience 21st century New York. At sunset, the towers of Manhattan seemed to be ablaze...by night fall...the Bronx was burning.

for Papa Joe Ciulla

Today at 6:17 PM



I am a Veteran
Of Willowbrook Road

There is something
About. A hometown
When you roam streets
Once familiar in youth
Now vaguely strange
In the bright light of
Future. Soon present.

Now past.

Somethings the same
But I...

I Am
Different.

Slower.

Reflecting on those
Who are gone

Sweet smiling faces
Look down and back
From beyond
Martling's Pond

And all fond memories
With that sentimental
Soft focus glow
Tread dirt paths
I used to know
The deep dark soil
Where I used to grow
My imagination

Where everything
Was a dream

And the impossible
Nothing