Ranch Poem – “The Parkway”


The Parkway

It’s faster to travel a St. than an Ave.
Look anyway you want and everywhere at once.
Better half of a decade I’ve been
scribbling, reflecting, and texting
on that escape route bus out of the City.
It’s raining something fierce this time and
I’m watching all these human beings trug around
with their soaked socks and vinyl mushroom caps.
And I remember the girls in Brooklyn earlier today
walking down Bedford wearing the same dresses,
even in the summer heat they wore bloody rain boots!
From the boulder mountain ranges in the Park to
the asphalt sands of Manhattan Isle,
this place is dug in and eternal.
They will speak of this land in any future
and on any world or dimension that
knows of Earth and humanity.
A million million million million
faceless Herring people prostrate all around,
trying their best to vibrate and intertwine.
Is it the rain clouds or has night fallen?
I think I see Maxwell’s ripples atop the Hudson
and as sparks fly as pen flicks off paper
the Parkway may be my kindling




Ranch Poem – Asphalt Astronauts


Asphalt Astronauts

On a Lucky Star bus in the Bronx.
I switch to a ball point pen.
The sloppy purple Pilot G2 produces
unmanageable letters and words.
You’ve got to have a Bruce Lee grip
on your Moleskin to write anything
with a Chinese immigrant at the wheel.

At dusk, the Expressway is free
from its usual clusterfuck of
rancid trash trailers,
parades of smoggy eighteen wheelers
and cursing commuters from Long Island.

The sun sets behind Manhattan.
All of the icons and skyscrapers
are mountains carved from
a sea of Blood Orange clouds.

I wonder if the City’s sidewalks
will produce a moment for me tonight.
A, this is really happening, top of the world,
unforgettable moment mass-produced
by a chaotic kinetic City of energies.

And yes, you are most definitely expected
to act out and rage on the street corners
tucked between Bushwick warehouses.
The thick rimmed souls sip wandering glasses
and sweat satisfaction all over one another.

These peacocks crave it all.
Most peacocks need the attention.
All peacocks belong in a flock of peacocks.
Some peacocks are really pigeons.

Elsewhere-away from the L trains,
Greenwich groceries and trampled concrete-
there is not as much of everything, everywhere.

Pick a pace, select a speed, vibe a vibe.
Rampant fetishization of capitalism by consumer tribes.
Everyone’s a photographer with F-Stop eyes.
The City is a Space with asphalt astronauts inside.