= 15 =
Saturday Feast in Little Poland
= 16 =
= 17 =
Sand and Sun
= 18 =
More poems by the teenage poet will be added over time to this sampling.
Biblical Hartford. There is something downright ancient or Biblical about Hartford as I see it every time I hitchhike past in one direction or the other on Interstate 91. I can't explain it. It's an old city, with some new buildings. It's a powerful center for insurance companies and gun corporations. There is a lot of sullen, arrogant, self-assured power in those neo-Babylonian, neo-Assyrian, old Sumerian structures, towers, surfaces, and spires. It's not the biggest or oldest of cities, and certainly not the newest. There are thousands of places like this across the USA, smaller, bigger, same size, and those numbers alone are mind-boggling. It's astronomical in the same sense why we can't grasp the number of stars in a galaxy or molecules in a fingernail or grains of sand on a beach. A lot of my poetry has to do with awe. Some of it is just nitpicky, finicky, fun or maybe an expression of fatalism mixed with resistance, and stubborn hope. As long as we breathe we have illusions. Sometimes when I am hitching out there, like an astronaut riding a rocket into space, I feel a bit like old Ulysses on his crazy homeward trip, his nostos, his longing for home and laying down the bones with Penelope. All of it is there, scribbled in code, written in the lines of those buildings, or printed on the flats of those grim, stubborn surfaces.