Terrifically tragic transportation
Transpires on the tempestuous
T
Boston buffets bystanders with
Banging, belching B-lines branching
Into one of four long
Limbs

My caressing hands have stopped trying to tame the strings.
They move now more to harmony than to melodious things.
Brassy bands, drunk sailors and the sound of laughter.
The D string, the rough bar-stool clamp and clatter.
The sound of voices, raucous and hoarse with song.
The sound of voices, laughing as they all yell along.

It's a barstool anthem;
It's great and it's loud.
There're no classics here...
but Bach would be proud.

Time is all he has left to waste.
Razors in his pocket, not for his face.
Pictures in his wallet, of his kids, not her face.
Not her mocking smile. Not her teeth made of lace.
Not her... Not him. Just a train ride to Boston.
A cigarette in the shadow of what's left of this place before the bell rings
                     it tolls for thee.

It's a lonely track in an alley.
It's another wrist run tally.
It's drops wet from his wrists.
It's those picture-frame kids.
No memory can fill the mist
in his eyes; It can't replace
the blood dropping like a surprise
party at eight. Tears don't fall from his face. At this pace...
Trains don't stop at Boston. They don't care about his kids.
They stop only till the next sad jazz-man pops in ready to erase.

The bell rings. He ceases to matter as the next guy shuffles in.

Boston, what a colorfully gray city you are.
At daytime Downtown seems busy.
People in suits, always walking with a purpose and defined destination.
Never stops.

People don't act if they don't have reason to.
And how the sun is hiding the people are as well.

When the bright white moon comes up, the narrow streets are quite, no soul is found.

Im the lector of the unwritten letter,
the crowd of a canceled opera,
the observer of an unrecorded satirical filmstrip of this colorfully gray city. Boston

Section 17 Row H seats 11 and 12
Almost every home game does he see
A grey haired man with a clip board sits
Two seats over and one down from me
He's a scout for the bigs, Comes most games to watch
Can't watch as a fan anymore
They know he made it, was up with the Bruins
Played defence with Old Number Four
He watches intently for five minutes or so
Just enough to watch each kid skate twice
Then he drinks down his coffee all in one gulp
and then he returns his eyes to the ice
The Scout, we will call him, for lack of a name
Has seen kids who've got game disappear
They find out he's watching, they get all uptight
And they can't play 'cause they're all tense with fear

I watched for four games, got his routine down pat
Watched him arrive and watch the kids skate
He'd go down in the corner and stand by the glass
Watching close through the plexiglass plate
He stayed away from the coaches, the players as well
And the parents, he'd avoid like the plague
If one ever stopped him, and asked "How's my boy"
He'd smile, and give an answer so vague
His career ended early with a stick to the head
Almost killed him, but, he was too mean
His left the game early, with Wayne Maki to blame
The Scout, is Edward "Ted" Green


Each season he'd sit, watching game after game
In arenas all over the land
Some kids he'd notice, he did not come to watch
They were just something that wasn't planned
He'd come into town to watch a kid who could score
And go home with two names on his list
One a defence man, and the goalie as well
But, the scorer, couldn't skate and got missed
Ted, would watch and make his reports on kids
Some were right, and the kid would go pro
He may be a star in the minors right now
But, the bigs...well, fate only knows

He'd listen to parents and coaches talk of the boys
Saying "My son's the next Bobby Orr"
Ted would chuckle a little and not say a word
He knew the kid would be heard from no more
Putting pressure like that on a young players back
Is like saying, "My boy will be God"
From then on it's never, the talented kid
I'ts the boy cursed with Orr's lightning rod
Many young players get compared to the best
But to say it out loud is a curse
You put a red dot on the young players back
He may as well leave in a hearse

Ted's seen them all, coaches, players and bums
Played when the game was real tough
They  had lighter equipment, not kevlar like now
and Ted, as we know liked it rough
His scratches and scribbles on the page tell a lot
But to the untrained they look like a mess
A pharmacy student couldn't read what he wrote
Nor a court stenographer I guess
He's a spotter of talent with stories to tell
More of them about kids who fell short
Most of them cursed with the "My kids the next..."
and the name of the best in the sport

Two Hundred and Ten games he watches each year
Most times he's gone early on
He's sees what he needs and then he packs up his stuff
And by the end of the first, Ted is gone
He's off on the road to another ice rink
To sit and watch on the hard seats, so cold
To listen as parents and coaches again
Talk of greatness, it's all gotten old
Terrible Ted has a warriors soul
And his grey hair is thinner but, curly
He has ice in his veins and a stick through his heart
Too bad his playing time ended too early.

I met a dark girl
With evening skin
She swam beautifully in

Moonshine eyes and a forever smile
A dance in her step all the while
Young woman had style

She reminded me of Mama’s hugs
Out in L.A. in that old jazz club
As we strolled the cobbled stones
Out so far and then back home

By the shadows cast of the tree’s
On the buildings dress and front steps
Up three or four flights she sang to me
And that sound has never left

It was autumn in Boston and all was fresh
The song of her voice, the shine of her flesh
If brass were black, she’d be a saxophone
(with her own wonderful tone)

Swimming in and out of that spotlight on stage
Even her father named her
After a song
By Coltrane

(c) 2015

Next stop: Haymarket
Doors will open on the left
» subway tunnel breeze «

Falling pink petals
Plinking my head
A saxophone serenade

Kind of kind of blue
A solitary birch among many hundreds
Of deciduous trees, its paper

Bark scored with age
White among shadows
And the endless breeze takes me up

Into Tiffany-blue sky
Pollen clumps litter the edges of lawn
Calliope streaming from a mared and seahorsed

Carousel dances in my head
Disobedient canine in exodus
Defiant against the silhouette

Of a circled dog
Line diagonally cutting across
Wah wah wah as the ducks in the pond

Are chased away.
Endless verdant day criss-crossed with
Walking paths and robin’s-egg sky punctuated

With drifting cotton shapes.
Brazen squirrels accustomed to the pleasant
Bustle and hustle

Bat City, unopened, in my lap
Mothers feeding children
Hungry mouths to breast.

Seeking out a lemonade stand
Near Winter Street in spring
A yellow burst of sour notes sing

On my palate
A bargain at a fiver on a day as this
Soundtrack peppered by buskers and

An ***** grinder turning the crank on his street ***** and
Birds and
The woo of occasional sirens.

A mother wheeling her child along
In a stroller
Mohawked, tattooed, pierced lip and

She smiles on by.
Ivied brownstones and balconies railed
With wrought iron

End our stay
On this idyllic day
In month of May.

Deflate Gate
By: Tom Brady

When it comes to football
it’s all about the ball
it’s got nothing to do with skill
or giving our fans a thrill

When I cozy up behind the hiker
and give the call to begin the game
he snaps the ball into my hands
as the crowd screams from the stands

Then I make my famous moves
to the left, maybe right, maybe back
either to pass the ball or, to
hand it off to a running back

Where the ball goes, nobody knows
just me – in my moment of glory
whether the ball is soft or hard
I can’t be bothered or give a worry

Seems strange to me about the air  
inside the ball – being such a big crime
they check the pressure when we start
why not each quarter, or, during half time

Whether a ball is soft or hard at game’s end
no difference to me or any team mate
we’re here to play our best on game day
not to deflate ***** or litigate

I run the back roads
to our hill
and stare at Boston
in the distance

I wish you
were that close,
close enough to see
so I know you're there