Summer Times Blues

Today was the official summer solstice for the northern hemisphere. The day lasted almost sixteen hours in New York and the sun never set in Murmansk, Russia. I woke well before the dawn and went to sleep far past sunset, as the Earth polar cap tipped toward the nearest star 93 million miles away from our home planet.

Five hundred year after the discovery of beer by the Celts the Druid priests gathered the tribes to erect this monolithic bluestone clock to record the rising and setting on the sun and the passage of the stars. To this day modern archaeologists will not attributed this great feat to the Celts, because the true tribe supposedly arrived in Britain in 600 before Caeser’s reign over Rome.

Fucking Brits haven’t even discovered its ancient name.

No one has come even close.

No one.

Not even us remaining Neanderthals.

The Avebury henges followed Stonehenge’s creation.

Back in 1994 I drank in a good pub at the northern entrance.

I also climbed to the top of the Sillbury Hill.

Scientist have calculated that its construction took five hundred men fifteen years.

And over two seas of beer.

The exact purpose of the hill remains unknown.

The view from the top is good, but nothing special.

Stonehenge has its rivals such as the Hopewell Project in Bangkok.

Or Manhattanhenge in New York.

And who can forget the eternal bliss of Foamhenge in Virginia.

It’s now 2:33PM

In Brooklyn.

I am ready for a nap.

Longest day of the year or not.

With my head to the west.

As it should be on the summer solstice.

Lost In Lille 2011

Lost In Lille 2011

After the Chunnel
Luxembourg bound
Porsche Boxer
The Ambassador behind the wheel
Un passenger
Through the North of France
Same as Belgium
Jacques Brel’s
Le plat pays qui est a mienne.
Eyes shut
Still seeing the flatness
Safe on the Autoroute
The ambassador behind the wheel
Luxembourg three hours away
Past midnight
On a bleak urban street
Not a soul in sight
Nothing says where we are
But I know.
I’ve been here before
With the ambassador
Behind the wheel
A wrong turn on the Autoroute
Lost before
Lost now.
The ambassador says one word
I nod without a word.
We have been here before.
I point the way
I have my father’s sense of direction
Soon we are unlost
Luxembourg bound
Lille lost in our taillights
At least for tonight.

Trouville France – 1985

In the summer of 1985 Candia and I took the train to Deauville for a vacation from Paris. Deauville itself was out of our budget, so we stayed in the neighboring town, Trouville or ‘city of a hole’. The weather was pleasant and we might have gone swimming during the day. The first night I intended on dining my girlfriend to Les Vapeurs, except the famed seafood retaurant was closed, so we went to another eaterie. Starting with a bottle of Sancerre I decided to be adventurous and ordered something other than sole for my main course, however the raiee au beure noire was abominable and I sent it back. The cook came out and insulted me as an ignorant American. The waiters took his back. He might have been right, but I stood up, told Candida to leave, and then picked up a fork, asking ,”Oui, veux perde un śil?”

The threat of loss of an eyeball was made in Boston-accented French.

The answer was silence, pobably not udnerstanding what I had said, but the fork in my hand translated to danger.

I dropped 200 francs for the bottle of wine and carried it outside.

Out on the foggy street Candida asked, “So now where do we eat?”

We had a crepe.

Candida was not happy, but was happier after I got us cups to drink the wine. It was nice to be out of Paris with someone you loved.

La Ruche Petite Dejeuner 1985

A rainy morning
Impasse de Danzig
La Ruche
The gray morning light lays as an allure
On your bare skin
My hand glides up your divine spine
To rest beneath an angel wing shoulder.
Heartbeat steady
My fingers memorize the eternity of your youth.
This touch will last forever.
I think___
The door opens
Your mother
Cafe et croissants.
You groan wanting more sleep.
I whisper
“Je revendrai avec le petite dejeuner.
I descend from the loft.
Bare foot a towel around my waist.
Simone smiles
I say
“Elle dors.”
Your mother smiles.
Her daughter is safe.
I smile back.
Not as young as you
But not as old as now.
And you ever young on that day

HoJos Hot

1971 I was hitchhiking out out of Boston to the South Shore after the closing of the bars. I was picked up by a youngish couple, who drove south with the woman between us in the front seat. It was a warm night and the man pulled into a highway HoJos to buy ice cream, leaving the woman with me.

She wiped her face and squirmed closer, saying, “It’s so hot.”

“Yes, it is.” I opened the window.

“I meant me.”

She placed my hand inside her bare thighs. Hot indeed. I spotted her boyfriend approaching with ice cream cones. She didn’t stop and he opened the door, saying, “I see you met Aline. My name is Bob.”

Ah the age of the Sexual Revolution

White Condo Fog

An April overcast overwhelms
A white luxury condo
Jay Street Brooklyn
Obscuring the upper floors
Earth warm
Sky cold
My fingers chilled
Not by Winter
But by the damp of Spring.
The new season
One month in
My joints ache in the damp
Some of me
My mind 15

Ruby Tuesday
The South Shore
Wollaston Beach
The Quincy Quarries
The Surf Nantasket
The Mattapan Oriental
Making out with Hyde Park girls
In the dark of the balcony
My fingers warm.
I write of my youth
My fingers
Tripping over consonents
My fingers
Fumbling with a bra
In the balcony of the Mattapan Oriental

With a white fog
Without gloom
For me
As are the Rolling Stones