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about me
poet, technologist, cynic, father of five, child of chaos, punker, prankster, patriot, punster, leftist, latino, japanophile, audiophile, beer drinker, quiche eater, dog walker, soft talker, deep thinker, shallow sleeper, introvert, covert operative in a parallel universe.

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* m a y s t a r *

  • September 2004
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  • August 2014
  • March 2015

    extra special bitter
    hops are bitter. life is bitter. coincidence?

    Tuesday, December 28, 2004

    if I were noble

    if I were noble I would wistfully smile the daydream away, instead of wishing it to linger, lingering on the wish as if that would somehow make it less impossible. I secretly curse my paralysis even as I raise my glass in a hearty toast.


    I dreamed

    I dreamed I was a fire ant.
    I dreamed I was small, red and angry.
    I dreamed that you were my mother, and that you hovered in the hum of the fluorescent lights at the office.
    I dreamed that the bartender knew my name and kept bringing me my favorite drink.
    I dreamed in vivid technicolor.
    I dreamed in soft, effervescent waves.
    I dreamed the girl next door into my dream.
    I dreamed that you were an abstraction of every sentence fragment I ever uttered, every secret thought I ever drove from my conscious mind, every hope I ever set aside for a little while, and then forever.
    I dreamed that I was impossible, and then I was.


    Monday, December 27, 2004

    you're my favorite vegetable

    I’ve been told
    you’re good for me —
    everything I need
    in the palm of my hand.
    and I admit
    there are times
    when I crave nothing else.
    but when the night refuses to end
    I find myself reaching
    for something else
    while you remain faithful —
    polished and refrigerated
    on a clear plastic shelf.


    Monday, December 20, 2004

    back bay blues

    I’m tired of writing this poem
    but your
    stiletto-heeled self
    compels me.
    I’m doing this for you, after all.
    you wouldn’t exist
    without the words I breathe
    into your delicious mouth
    with my ale-drenched lips
    while you clutch
    and squirm
    and sway
    to the rhythm
    of my random verse.
    I drink deeply
    of the smile
    I’ve painted for you.
    your rush hour perfume trail
    propels me into orbit
    above the skyscraper sky.
    the taste of your fear
    intoxicates me
    and at length
    I drop my pen
    and watch you
    into the next daydream.


    Sunday, December 19, 2004

    it's the most wonderful time of the year

    Christmas crunch —
    I lose my wife
    in shopping cart gridlock


    Thursday, December 16, 2004

    the commute

    the way I see it
    this train will never arrive —
    we’ll all end up
    frozen to the platform
    like haphazard statues.
    so in preparation
    I strike
    a series of fetching poses
    each worthy of immortality.
    everyone tries to ignore me.

    as the poet amongst us
    I am pondering
    the monument’s inscription:
    we never wept.
    you never came.


    Wednesday, December 15, 2004

    too old to care

    While driving into work today I had this great idea: record a solo album of punk/folk/rock songs, accompanied only by a guitar—alternating between electric and acoustic, just to keep it interesting. Rather than pretending to be something I wasn’t, I’d be exactly who I was, hence the title “too old to care”. I would not be as melancholic as Elliott Smith, nor as British as Billy Bragg, nor as fanciful as Robyn Hitchcock, nor as self-consciously abstract as Robert Pollard.

    Of course, if I were to be exactly who I was, I wouldn’t be able to play guitar, write songs or sing, except to the radio blaring in Mass Pike rush hour traffic. The fantasy evaporated along with the reception about halfway through the Ted Williams Tunnel.

    And so it went.

    Except for this: the next time someone tells me that I’m too old to be singing “Pawn Shoppe Heart”, I’ll tell them that I’m too old to care...


    Saturday, December 11, 2004

    between exits

    I regained consciousness
    just as the rain became heavy.
    the violence
    of the downpour
    pinned me to the ground
    and lulled me back to sleep.
    awakened by thunder
    I clawed at the tall crabgrass.
    turnpike traffic
    streamed in the distance
    but no one could see
    the words
    that had formed on my lips
    the name
    I could no longer hear.


    Friday, December 10, 2004

    Your Nuclear Moment

    the day I kissed you
    I nearly forgot
    your longitude and latitude.
    until then
    the target was little more
    than coordinates on paper
    and a cluster of lights
    in my field of vision.
    a flash
    and then the steep climb upward
    into the clouds
    where I could almost taste
    the ashes on your lips.


    Thursday, December 09, 2004

    Peace, Love and Apprehension

    I suffer from the occasional good mood. I've yet to seek medical help for the condition, since it usually doesn't last very long.

    warm December night —
    I release a mouse
    from the trap


    Tuesday, December 07, 2004

    snow turns to rain

    When I write a haiku that suggests a photograph (or is suggested by a photograph), I like to post it to In my experience, however, nobody likes to photograph mixed precipitation.

    snow turns to rain —
    phone calls to my children


    Sunday, December 05, 2004

    Where I've Hung My Hat

    It occurs to me that I've lived in quite a few places in my 45-plus years. Counting backwards, let's track the progress of this tumbleweed:

  • Cochituate, MA (11/1997 to present)
  • Somerville, MA (1/1997 to 11/1997)
  • Acton, MA (7/1996 to 1/1997)
  • Stillwater, MN (10/1994 to 7/1996)
  • Niskayuna, NY (11/1993 to 10/1994)
  • Albany, NY (5/1993 to 11/1993)
  • Latham, NY (4/1991 to 5/1993)
  • Huntsville, AL (7/1987 to 4/1991) (2 different locations)
  • North Babylon, NY (1/1987 to 7/1987)
  • Charleston, SC (8/1986 to 1/1987)
  • Summerville, SC (7/1986 to 8/1986)
  • Amityville, NY (9/1982 to 7/1986)
  • Farmingdale, NY (1/1960 to 9/1982)
  • Brooklyn, NY (8/1959 to 1/1960)

    is where I left my hat
    on that fateful afternoon
    acutely aware
    of the symbolism
    and the way it clashed
    with your decor.
    you never moved it.

    19 May, 1998
    Cochituate, MA

    raking leaves

    raking leaves —
    all the apologies
    I've never made

    I've always viewed raking leaves as an acquiescence of sorts—acknowledging that Fall is over and that Winter is inevitable. The harshness of the December wind brings with it an urgency to complete the chore. The task is physically intense, forcing the mind to wander.

    The original version of this haiku was somewhat more sinister:

    raking leaves —
    all the apologies
    I'll never make

    Once back inside, my perspective softened. Soon I'll view the snow as beautiful and quaint—in a New England sort of way—until I have to break out the shovel...


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