Radio Boy

Once I lived inside a radio. Youthful transmissions. WBZ free and clear. A.M. dial to Beatle Tunes, Stones, Norman Greenbaum Spirit in The Sky. Once I lived inside a radio. FM talk and jabber late into the night. Stories of politics and race, foreign wars. Hosts spoken to Boston boy with wild dreams of Red Sox diamonds on World Series ring. Sounds of songs, grooving riff to wished rebellion of time and place. Dial set, tuned as sixties rage. The Radio Boy, 13 year old awareness of life he lives. Plastic airwaves taken to summer joys. Friends, baseball. Then winter games on street hockey plain. Sticks like Orr. He scores on shallow net. Poses he does falsely of a time always to remain. Now disappeared are those Radio Days into a memory of space and place on Boston shore. AM gone. FM as youth is nevermore. Once I lived inside a radio. But now a radio lives inside of me.

Heart

2,000 words? Tell me how many paragraphs. Tell me how many periods. How many semi-colons stretched along an uneven page. Tell me about the stories, born and reborn. Ideas sent to the edge, to the awful margins of an airless demise. I think I'll disappear into a dreamless sleep. Awake to a new home, a new house, a new goal to write with a discerning heart.

Posture

Sometimes I'll slouch into a Square Corner . I'll stretch my spirit, spread my wings, touch my claws and toes. Blood and words pulsing through these elastic veins. Then I'll stand straight, move about with shoulders strong. But I do as I do, I slide back to the real world: slouched, my body hunched like an old dream.

Glint

I saw Lucifer in the eyes of glinting teeth. The glimmer of enamel nails, chewed to the hairy skin. There! The setting sun on a disbeliever's plane. Spoken to me in devil's repose: fly the carpet of the Golden Jet. Wings take flight on far flung wind; fandango of superhero songs, hooded ornaments of dissonant sounds, despair; powdered beatles touched in Epstien's Rubbered Soul. See me! See you! See the baby blue eyes eat unholy gaps between glinting teeth. Devil worship. Atheist in secret prayer. Believer in denial of lovers frozen, homeless in creepy dreams. The glint of the teeth. The rubber soul. Epstein and Lucifer in armbar of unquestioned life. Those rants; bodyguards of theological prose.

Greatest Ever

Greatest opening to a 20th century novel:

"I am an American, Chicago born — Chicago, that somber city — and go at things as I have taught myself, free-style, and will make the record my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent.”

-Adventures of Augie March by Saul Bellow

Late Night Fingers

Maybe its a sign of weakness. Maybe its a sign of strength. But if need be, I'll blog with a wretched heart. An overwrought soul. I'll type with twisted fingers late into the night.

I Belong

What do I belong to? Words on a blog...My aspirations...My inspirations...A past that lifts me and holds me back. No matter what I deny, it's all of them.

You, just like me.