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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.


[2012]

Friday, August 12, 2016

Harvard Square

You gluten-free philosophers,
post-punk mathematicians,
riot-grrl scientists
and fair-trade historians,
with your organic tote-bags,
bi-curious Birkenstocks,
vegetarian poetry-slams,
existentialist gelato,
quinoa bike-helmets,
and free-range skateboards,
how I love the lot of you!
from your arugula buzzcuts
down to the soles
of your espresso-soaked socks.

Out for My Walk

Arlington, Massachusetts, 5.15 am, first morning of summer --- air cool and dewy: sprinklers, sparrows, squirrels; a wide-awake rabbit o...