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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
  • October 2004
  • November 2004
  • December 2004
  • January 2005
  • February 2005
  • March 2005
  • April 2005
  • May 2005
  • June 2005
  • July 2005
  • August 2005
  • September 2005
  • October 2005
  • November 2005
  • December 2005
  • January 2006
  • February 2006
  • March 2006
  • April 2006
  • May 2006
  • June 2006
  • July 2006
  • August 2006
  • September 2006
  • October 2006
  • November 2006
  • December 2006
  • January 2007
  • February 2007
  • March 2007
  • April 2007
  • May 2007
  • June 2007
  • July 2007
  • August 2007
  • September 2007
  • October 2007
  • November 2007
  • December 2007
  • January 2008
  • February 2008
  • March 2008
  • April 2008
  • May 2008
  • June 2008
  • July 2008
  • August 2008
  • September 2008
  • October 2008
  • November 2008
  • December 2008
  • January 2009
  • February 2009
  • March 2009
  • April 2009
  • May 2009
  • June 2009
  • August 2009
  • September 2009
  • October 2009
  • November 2009
  • December 2009
  • January 2010
  • February 2010
  • March 2010
  • April 2010
  • May 2010
  • June 2010
  • July 2010
  • August 2010
  • September 2010
  • October 2010
  • November 2010
  • December 2010
  • January 2011
  • February 2011
  • March 2011
  • April 2011
  • May 2011
  • June 2011
  • July 2011
  • August 2011
  • September 2011
  • October 2011
  • November 2011
  • December 2011
  • March 2012
  • April 2012
  • May 2012
  • June 2012
  • August 2012
  • April 2013
  • June 2013
  • August 2013
  • September 2013
  • October 2013
  • February 2014
  • March 2014
  • April 2014
  • August 2014
  • March 2015

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

    Monday, October 31, 2005


    Halloween —
    the devil
    knows my name


    Sunday, October 30, 2005

    Devil's Night

    Devil’s Night —
    the ghostly glow
    of CNN


    Saturday, October 29, 2005

    October snow

    October snow —
    suddenly I feel
    so old


    Friday, October 28, 2005

    food shopping

    food shopping —
    one more bag of Halloween candy
    “just in case”


    Thursday, October 27, 2005

    layoff rumors

    layoff rumors —
    a full cup
    of burnt coffee


    Wednesday, October 26, 2005


    Halloween —
    President Bush thanks me
    for the Snickers bar


    sometimes I only want...

    ...everything, except the very thing that I dare not want, which is to say that I want not to want that very thing. but I digress. snow is in the forecast, leaves are on the ground, and I can’t seem to find my arsenal. the leaves that have fallen have not yet changed color — they have fallen to violent hands in the form of wind and rain. it’s sunny now, but I’m not cheered in the slightest.

    because nothing is coming up roses, but rather everything is glowing with the faintest traces of light. it’s in those spaces approaching darkness that we become most enlightened.

    except that I don’t believe that. I don’t even want to. what do I want? anything?


    Tuesday, October 25, 2005

    snow in the forecast

    snow in the forecast
    I microwave
    my coffee


    Monday, October 24, 2005

    startled from sleep

    startled from sleep —
    did I save
    that spreadsheet?


    Sunday, October 23, 2005

    phone call

    phone call
    from my ex-wife —
    mold on a peach


    Saturday, October 22, 2005

    the old tree

    the old tree —
    crossed-out initials
    inside a heart


    Friday, October 21, 2005

    first frost

    first frost —
    more than a touch of gray
    in my beard


    Thursday, October 20, 2005

    were you speaking?

    were you speaking?
    I was busy
    counting stars


    Wednesday, October 19, 2005

    gibbous moon

    gibbous moon —
    an email from my ex-wife
    flagged as “junk”


    Tuesday, October 18, 2005

    slow night

    slow night —
    the barmaid buys
    another round


    there goes gravity

    “wild flowers” she said.
    they were weeds.
    “from a secret admirer.”
    I could see where this was going already.
    “how do you know?” I asked.
    “there was a note.”
    “can I see it?”
    “why? are you jealous?”
    “should I be jealous?”

    she paused to smell them, inhaling deeply as if they were the most fragrant roses ever to grace the planet. then she tossed them into the river.

    “they were from you.”


    Monday, October 17, 2005

    (still) october

    october —
    I go to work wearing
    the wrong color socks


    Sunday, October 16, 2005

    october wind

    october wind —
    the dog guards
    a freshly fallen acorn


    Saturday, October 15, 2005

    the boogeyman weeps

    meet me in the ashes of the old city. bring a bottle of the finest cheap wine; I’ll bring the paper cups. there we’ll watch the river rise and fall against the broken glass shore and sleep under the stars.

    it rained. she never showed. the river was snatched into the air by a big black vulture, silent except for the rush of wings.


    Friday, October 14, 2005

    clearing trend

    clearing trend —
    a stranger returns
    my “hello”


    Thursday, October 13, 2005

    night terror

    night terror —
    the crack in the dogwood branch



    my lover’s eyes
    are bigger than my fist.
    they follow me
    down dark alleyways
    and wait for me
    outside the office
    outside the pub
    outside my home
    more patient than God
    all-seeing, all knowing,
    that I will return
    that I will do
    she says.


    Wednesday, October 12, 2005


    all the storm windows


    Tuesday, October 11, 2005

    startled from sleep

    startled from sleep
    the broken gutter


    Monday, October 10, 2005

    the forecast

    the forecast:
    monday morning drizzle
    all week long


    Saturday, October 08, 2005

    high school football game

    high school football game —
    my son takes his helmet off
    in the driving rain


    Friday, October 07, 2005

    heightened security

    heightened security —
    pigeons watch the cop
    who walks the beat


    Thursday, October 06, 2005

    quiet night

    quiet night —
    a fish swims
    through the moon


    Wednesday, October 05, 2005

    Who do I think I am?

    Self-image is a curious thing. In creating this blog, I listed a number of attributes about myself that were intended as a sort of word-portrait. In truth, it’s what I want you to believe about me. The reality behind the smokescreen is a bit more prosaic: I really think of myself as an alarmingly skinny, painfully awkward adolescent with gray hair. Of course that self-image is only partly true, but it’s been indelibly stamped into the mirror of my self-consciousness. It may not be what I am, but it’s what I think I am.

    Let’s take ethnicity for example: I was born in Rockville Centre, NY to American parents, which makes me an American. Easy enough. Both of my father’s parents were born in Puerto Rico, as were all of his grandparents. What does he consider himself? Spanish. Not Puerto Rican, not Hispanic, not Latino - Spanish. My mother’s mother was also born in Puerto Rico, while her father was born in the Phillipines to a Spanish mother and an English father. What does she consider herself? Puerto Rican, as do all of her siblings. This is the context of my own cultural ambiguity.

    While my parents grew up in the melting pot of Brooklyn, I grew up in the opaque Tupperware bowl of Farmingdale, NY. We were just another middle class family with a station wagon and aluminum siding. We were as white as Wonder Bread.

    With a few notable differences, of course. My mother and her family always spoke to one another in Spanish, while my father spoke to his family as seldomly as possible, and never in Spanish. So while my brothers and I heard plenty of Spanish growing up, my parents spoke to us exclusively in English. Spanish was a secret code belonging to the grownups. I grew familiar with the melodies and cadences of the languages, but I couldn’t sing along.

    I started to learn a foreign language in the fourth grade. It was French. The Farmingdale school system taught Spanish and French in alternating years, and I happened to be in a French year. I learned it well enough to score a perfect grade on my 10th grade Regents exam. I can barely speak a word of it today.

    In college I finally had my first opportunity to learn Spanish. I took a placement exam, which revealed that while I had a great accent and good ear for the language, I had a very limited vocabulary and no understanding of Spanish grammar. I was a beginner. Over a quarter century later, I’m still a beginner. Most of what I hear outside of a classroom setting is much too fast for my ear to discern more than every third or fourth word. When speaking, I still formulate sentences in English and attempt to translate them on the fly into Spanish. This results in a considerable delay, not to mention a significant amount of self-consciousness. Simply put, I lack the confidence to speak.

    Which is a shame, since, as a phonetic language, Spanish makes so much sense to me. Moreover, it’s in my blood. How can I not speak it? How can I not be what I am?

    Or is it only what I think I am?


    Tuesday, October 04, 2005

    wrong number

    wrong number —
    the dog climbs into
    my side of the bed


    Monday, October 03, 2005

    new moon

    new moon —
    not much new
    this monday morning


    Sunday, October 02, 2005

    (still) October

    October —
    a shower of champagne
    in the winning clubhouse


    Saturday, October 01, 2005


    October —
    I show my teenaged sons
    how to use an axe


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