THE RESORTS BY THE SEA
Exit 37 of the Garden State Parkway
pushes
its buses and cars onto a barren
island
surrounded by water and marshland.
Tonight, 1997, coming in, see
shop windows
boarded up with plywood, here
no one asks why?
In front of the Atlantic City
Expressway lies
the towers of Bally, Resorts,
Showboat, Trump's
which rise out of the black sand.
Inside the towers, couples, friends,
and
lovers pour hard earned currency
into
slot machines, the wheel, poker,
and
blackjack tables in
their working class shirts and
Bradlee's dresses looking for
the Big Pay off someway, someday.
Hopelessly, hoping for hope in
a city still looking for her
miracle.
On the television
shows are about nothing like
Seinfeld and Friends in
particular. They are
nothing compared to death,
crying or getting a job in
real life. I love those
shows but they don't feed me.
"I WRITE THE
SONGS THAT MAKE THE YOUNG GIRLS CRY"
Every morning, I drive Route 18
highway,
singing all those Grateful Dead
songs
to myself, driving 65 MPH everyday.
I try to "put things right" all
wrongs
as I drive to work singing everyday
by re-writing Barry Manilow songs.
In the early 1960s on
my parent's black and
white Magnavox console
waiting for
the Patty Duke Show to
appear, I fell in
love with Patty's character.
A child star herself,
got crazy playing
kissing cousins from
Brooklyn and England.
Patty and Cathy seemed to
do everything just right.
There were only 7 channels of
television in those days.
I just couldn't wait to
see the show on Wednesday
evening back then.
I fly no flag
above yours
except for
the spirit flag
In the wind
it flys
with thee
THE YACHTS'
REGALIA
for Kathleen
Things change here,
every season except
the yachts float out
with the Sun having fun
with the clear blue waves.
And the children laugh
as their parents listen
to the Yankee game
on WABC radio
on a sandy beach
as cigar smoke competes
with potato chip odors
filling the crisp air.
As grandmothers' plan
for supper
for their relatives
on beach towels
here, everyone's
on holiday
of some sort.
As the ivy
grows slowly
out at
Wrigley Field
so does
the cry:
"Cubs win!"
"Cubs win!"
"Cubs win!"
Obnoxious
players
who
hit
for
a
living
Ty
Cobb
and
Pete
Rose
in
the
Hall
of
Shame.
Hey Yogi,
just want to
say hello!
I don't want
an autograph or
photograph.
All I want
to say is
thanks for
those wonderful
memories of
you as catcher.
And me, at
9 years old in
front of
the Rizzuto-Berra
Bowling alley
drinking Yoo-Hoo
with my young
friends who
walked along
the railroad tracks
to see your mitt
encased in glass.