Cabbage and The Uncomfort of Life

I didn’t want to do it

I guess I kind of had to do it

Shit we do to make it through

Renting out half the space

The rat race isn’t even

Half way through

The smell of cabbage in the morning

Warning that the uncomfort of life

Is seeping through

It wild the way we hustle

People bustle

Plan for the next month

Once again feeling uncomfortable

But I guess in a city

Where rules are only enforced

Rather than exist

This small task I complete

To make it through the month

Cause if not I call it quits

And back on the road I’ll be

With only half my wits

I’m not running some grand hotel

Not even a bed and breakfast

Just trying to make time with no roomates pass

The hosting seemed to be the only option

In a city

Where the Attorney General

Might be hot for me

But I guess I’m damned if I do

Damned if I don’t

It’s New York City

The only answer I can not give

Is

I won’t

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Ring the Brownstones

“You do this every God damn time!”

Exclaimed the man

Hands half thrown in the air

While he ripped the door of the old van

Open

“Fucking Bullshit – that is what it is!”

His head full of dark hair slightly covered

With a Yankees hat

Strewn to the right

The short stout man

Flung the back door of the transport van

Wide open

Hoping to rip it from the hinges

Anger, rage, discontent, dismayed

His voice rang up through the brownstones

Like a choral chamber in a church

He disappeared into the van

Throwing out both one more explicative

Cargo equipment

His friend walked drooped at the shoulders

Slowly recovering the bulls rage thrown

“I’ll tell them what I am going to do”

I wipe my eyes for the first time

It is 7 AM on Manhattan Ave.

This is not unusual

But rather more intense than not

I pull my face close to the glass

Feeling the winter cold briefly pass

My nose

Must be cold out there I think

Unfortunate soul

Throwing out the kitchen sink

But all on a good Tuesday morning in Brooklyn

Now

Back to work

Simple Flake

The time it takes

For one simple flake

To make its way

Down the streets of New York

Falling carelessly to the ground

Over the Empire State

Shoveling below

Cracking sound

Filling the streets with heavy

Steady and steady

Falling so hard

I can barely make out

One World Trade

In a storm for the ages

Barren isles of food in the store

We bear down the hatches

And get ready

For just a little more

The Resolve of Cooler Heads

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Until cooler heads prevail

Under mild winds

Set sail

No good will come of this

No anger will resolve

Will new problems evolve

Cutting new wounds

Deeper than the original

So until cooler heads prevail

The boat sits in the harbor still

Waiting until

The patterns change

Sending this craft back

On its way

The High Sky

On a brisk walk under November skies

The weather cold dark and grey

How would one ever know

That one thousand pounds of weed

Was falling my way

One foot ahead of the other

Walking in a winter fashion

Passing others waving

Making no point to be an attraction

Snow gave way to firm concrete underneath

A light chatter of crackling snow and ice

Under my feet

I glance at the horizon

Just up enough to see

That a dark black object

Hurtling toward the earth

And me

I quicken my pace to a jog and clear the way

I now know something is falling

Falling right towards my direction

As it nears the ground

50 feet or so

I notice it is about 8 bags of so

They fall to the ground as haystacks tossed

I begin my decent to discover the fallen goods

There is no way that I could have truly understood

Here is 100 lbs of weed fallen from the sky above

Heavenly dank sent from the angels with love

Upon that day I reached a new level high

With the gifts I received

That fell from the sky

Sandy Blue Pastels

The baby pastel blues

Off the shores of Lake Michigan

Fall crashing coldly

Onto sandy homes

Roaring from the weather

The wind and the snow

Waking me in the morning

Through the pines

Between ice tipped shrubs

Beating on the glass outside my window

Awakened to light brighter

Song lighter

Of the winter birds

The lake reveals a storm overhead

Three feet of snow headed to Michigan

I protect my warmth in the morning

As the heat evades my winter skin

To a cold Michigan morning

Under a snow and ice so thin

Pine needles crackle

Tied together loose with water and cold

Under each foot gives way

To an earth frozen

But only days ago

It was an early rip of storms for this time of year

Creating a palpable uncertainty in the air

Cars wheels fell ungraspable to pavement frozen

Sliding from one side to the other

It was a frigid morning in Michigan

Truly I was not prepared

For winters cold hand

Had laid its awakening on falls back

And now into winter we are fashioned

With waves crashing

Small drops splashing

Higher than the rock walls

Where the drips fall

Creation of some new frozen ice

To tell the story of this transition

Truly is a testament to my position

Tucked in the woods

Staying warm for now

Under the winter sun in Michigan