Photo credit: @CutterStreeby

Groove Logic

Tonight we’ll make heaven when everything else is burning.

Tonight we’ll find Eden in a wasteland of rubble heaps,

Smoldering ruins, splintered asphalt & railway tracks.

Tonight our paradise is underground, packed wall-to-wall,

Air charged with sweat & bass-filled electric speakers.

Tonight we defy that sense of death & streets luring us into

Nihilistic ruin. We’ll retreat later on to the rooftop, watching

Sunrise & her promise of a life beyond this that is unnamed.

Of Life Itself

Of Life Itself

Sharp, beastly shrilling

of mopeds & motorbikes,

pungent whiffs of weed,

streams of patois on the bus–

3 senses of life itself.

Drive by

Drive by

Candles on

urban street corner

Youth, age––?





Stretched tight, like a belt

across the North Shore waistline.

A double-verse of city and town,

where factory shells and mill hollows

whisper industrial secrets

to blacked-out storefront windows.

A stimulating multi-ethnic maze,

where Monroe Street

feels like Boston’s Latin Quarter,

while pubs on Broad

have the Irish taste of Southie.

A raw jewel flaunting its gritty allure,

where the promenade on Lynn Shore Drive

points its green and sandy finger

into the Atlantic’s indigo abyss,

where what seems constant

are the saints and a stranger’s front porch,

offering up itself as a peeling front row seat

to watch one’s life transfix in stasis

or set sail to a sanguine horizon.








If one looks closely,
the rays of the sun
become luminous knives
piercing shrouded spaces,
leaving nowhere to hide.


Against the light I witness
this massacre of silent ruin,
where wild and decay
occupy structural order,
and God tags his name in white spray paint.

Head rushing; head rowing on the Charles River

Head rushing; head rowing on the Charles River

I’ve barely been to Roxbury, Matapan,
South Boston’s Irish Town.
I have not thought to stop like some
lost tourist to compare and contrast
features, challenges, triumphs,
hopes, dreams… lives.
The head rush of race and classism rushes
like the unlikely chance of a Charles River flood –
a flood that slugs lethargically downtown,
uptown, low-town
leaving the debris of history behind:
Civil rights marches, police confrontations,
bus and school rulings, blood spilt.
I see it, I live it all in my zoned out
head rush dreams.
It’s the Head of the Charles Regatta
and I’m an illegal participant,
head rowing against the tides of bad old days
I pray not to meet again.
I’ve barely been to Matapan, Roxbury,
South Boston’s Irish Town.
But for the sake of similar differences in this city
and nation’s story, I’d like to visit them all again.