Thursday, August 25, 2016

Opening Act

Surreal anthems from the fire escape.
He mends his mind with ribbons of Scotch tape.

He wrote "Apostasy" at age sixteen --
Flushed with the blood of Baudelaire's grape.

Brooding lad from Eastie, precocious tippler,
He wrapped himself in Superbard's cape.

Young and difficult under the triple-deckers,
He got himself into more than one scrape.

He learned the right words for all the wrong things
And sang mellifluously as any ape.

Nursed his wounds by the cramped bedroom's window.
A breeze from the back would startle the drape.

He carried The Map of Love wherever he went.
His dream (dark Beatrice!) took shape.

Saint of the city.  Columbus of the Blue Line.
Sage subway litany, blighted landscape.

He cracked sarcastic jokes.  More tame than Wilde.
He was the victim of his own crude jape.

Tommy's performance during the opening act
Left friends and enemies speechless, agape.



  1. One of the things about your poetry that's meaningful for me, beyond the poetry itself, is how you've prompted me to go back and mine the past for autobiographical material even when part of me has wanted to let it slip into obscurity. The July poem I plan to post in the next three or four days will show just a hint of that influence...but it's an ongoing project, and a difficult one. Thanks for the personal courage you show in these poems.

    1. Jeff, thank you for your kind words and for your consistent readership. I'm glad that something about my efforts has proved meaningful and helpful to you! I will look forward to your July poem. Thanks again!


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