Long Poem

A Confession

Storm King on the Hudson

stop this rain till the last word

hits the page.


Pleasure and virtue

have come



Every night in those enclaves

of youth

in secret ceremonies

Held alone

early before Phaeton

stole the chariot.


Late after Iris

retired from the mist

of the day

weary from delivering

the signs,


and messages

up for mis-interprets





in the stairwells

And silver bullets

take to victims,

innocent and friends.

The bows bend,

strung and strapped

to be held by Cupid

to aim at alleys


And it would go

that Venus

and Ares

had Eros

right there

and then.

* * *

Time wraps up in itself

the same as logic circles

round and round

for the sophist.

And it’s justice

and Tiresias

and Saul

and Milton

that were blind?


There’s a titan

king of them all

that has fallen


over the years

making history


and future.

* * *

Storm King on the Hudson

don’t wash

these words away


Don’t soak blazer

and book

till black

and blue

become victories for misery

and vice-

the legs of a compass

making perfectly



again and again.

Coming upon

monstrous fancies

at each turn.

* * *


are all the information

of fellow conspirators.

Storm King on the Hudson

followed from

island town

to the valley

wait till these

last words hit the page.


Couldn’t solve the five cases of Latin

six of Russian

nor even our three

as names were given

for so many more

subjects and objects

of the action and state.


This suit needs to serve its time

till the end of the song.


Be gentle

you four bosses

taking control over

this captive.

And have mercy

all judges, cops

and neighbors.

* * *


if those halfway halves

that had halfway


all these years

were folded

where the water

rises upon Tantalus

there would be seen

the quarters

to be drawn.

And why not,

everything promised

for those tasks and tributes

completed / extorted

came but as

a failure

to reach

your ring.

* * *


the path unfolds each day

in eight steps.

Categorical imperatives

and utilitarian values

kept close

to the hips

Holstered then unloaded

for excellence

Yet no meeting made

between your righteousness

and this Self.

* * *


Saloons, salons of superstition

and the galleries of Gomorrah

were common watering holes.

Slang of the streets

slung with medicines

from circumspect



and the self-same-self.

Lies and theft

goods fallen from trucks

sold at wholesale

for you,

And still not a made man.

* * *


And your muscle,

your henchmen

conspire together

as sticks

around the fascist axe

with this soul.

No alliance stronger than this to thou,

No loyalty

more canine

But dogs came from wolves

So what else

was one to suspect?


this is the route taken

to the convergence

of the four roads.

Your headquarters-

most comfortable

but at the junction

lies the courthouse,

and jail,

and resting place.

* * *

Storm King on Hudson,

the travel and confession

are almost done

Make light the mist

till these words

are complete.

The Dons

and Lords


and djinn

are all here

in these pages.

A rat

and snitch-

these are their sins,

may Virgil

and Dante

be their last guides

if they’re

not Mephistopheles


* * *

With the highways

clear from brigands

the trip home

is ready

save for destination


and companion.

* * *

Storm King on the Hudson

these are the last words,

now wash it all away

and give canoes

to the four

with one more

                for me.


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