Worlds Away (Carnarsie Beach)

Barren Carnarsie trees
garbage piled high
on the kerb.
A grey day,
a fall from the sky day.
Watched by the eyes of those
who would burn us while sleeping,
our blue sky of freedom
worlds away.

88th street is broad
and ordianry, in daylight
but on midsummer’s evenings
it rises
and touches the stars.
A hooded young man crouches
and watches me passing.
Forever untrusting.
Worlds away.

I long for my city
and my dreams of this city.
I came full of hope
but its flame could
never be fed.
Between the theives who are stealing
to eat and those stealing
to get richer,
this city is no longer ours.
Worlds away.


If these Brooklyn streets would flow as wine

If these Brooklyn Sreets
would run with wine
how happy my blood would be.
If these filty stones
would sing as birds
how light my feet would step
If the windows, dark and boarded
would shine as summer sun
I would dance amongst ruins
and see them as earthly gold.

every secret held
by the bricks and glass
is a note in the higher symphony
each story a melody
which winds to the
deafness of heaven
each tear that falls
grows a sigh, angel falls, the devil gets fat
every heartbreak
makes real the dream

I am madman
in the traffic,
they look at me askance
but when everyone is mad
my dance is not noticed
I wither here, unloved
O! My heart is bound by bridges
and undermined through filthy water
but these Brooklyn streets, they flow as wine
and my joy drinks deep and is renewed.

Oh, Death?

e eu vou morrer, esta noite.
meu sangue vai espirrar esta rua
com sua música escarlate
Eu não vou implorar, nem buscar a minha
amuleto sagrado.
Para a sorte que eu procurava
Foi essa morte,
o tempo todo.

Eu vim a este mundo
atingido por estrelas e me pergunto
Procurei um sonho de amor
negado antes.
Mas há ma amor aqui,
nestas pedras de
39th St.
E a minha pátria
me vê como
um filho doente.

O!, A morte, em breve
e transitória para mim.
Eu procuro não há vida para além
apenas sujeira desconhecimento.
para um poeta sem poemas
um sonhador sem sonhos
e um amante sem amor
não merece mais.

and I will die, tonight.
my blood will splash this street
with its scarlet music
I will not plead, nor seek my
sacred amulet.
For the luck I sought
was this death,
all along.

I cam to this world
struck by stars and wonder
I sought a dream of love
denied before.
But there is no love here,
on these stones of
39th St.
And my homeland
sees me as
a diseased son.

O!, death, be soon
and transitory to me.
I seek no life beyond
just unknowing dirt.
for a poet without poems
a dreamer without dreams
and a lover without love
deserves no more.


Sing me no more songs
of wine and warm autumn nights.
Those silvery notes
from the guitar
have drifted away…

Tonight,the river slowly laps
its oily stink consumes me.
I can only sit here and
weigh my life
on the scales of dreams gone by.

I am the poison needle

In the night
the sharp sting
the drops of blood
the fever dreams
the fever.

The footsteps
on the cold, cold ground
outside your stoop
naked in the night breeze

glass in your feet
you stumble
you’re walking
bleeding, a blood trail

His door
your vision, blurred
his hands
his hands in the fever dream

I am the poison needle
in you bed clothes.
The desire is the drug
in your blood

Come to me

The Beggar

I am not hungry
and I am not poor.
I am not sleeping out of doors
and my clothes are neat and clean.
But I am a beggar
on your avenue –
a kiss here, a smile there
an inviting glance

are all the kind favors which feed me.

Mental Confusion

I shake when I pour my coffee
as the sun rises, lonesome as a hobo
over the Gowanus Expressway.
My mind is dark –
I am stumbling, unshaven and breathless
in a state of mental confusion.

Some days, these twisted streets
and alleyways are my home –
I love them as my new world.
But, days like this
my heart is gone, across the sea
in a state of mental confusion.

And the trash-strewn courtyards
under steely, smoke-filled skies give way
to brilliant light on the chalk hills on Bracara Augusta.
The Sanctuary of the Born Jesus
shields me from the burning bright
finds cool water for my feet.

For I worship the coming sun
not the setting moon I am a poet and I will rise
and become one agin with my heart’s new home
I will shed the chains of sentiment
and emerge full with inspiration
from the state of mental confusion


The stars array
in the thick wine of night
as silver cars
slither by

winding through alleys
like the canyons of alto douro
bearing bandits
in their hearts.

Flash! of the eyes
wide in fear
as the chalice
is passed in the moonlight

in the thick wine of night
the bandit departs
is it posion or gold
in his pouch?

Why has it been so long?

Why has it been so long
since I ate at your table?
How did the wind turn so cold
outside my door?
How did the notes of the gut strung guitar
drfit so far from the fingers
which stroked them?
How have so many nights passed between us
since I slept in your bed?

I saw you, a shadow,
pass on the concrete beneath me.
I ran down the rattling
ladder and
called out your name,
but you were gone, like the breath
of a dying swan, over the water.
How did my touch grow so dry
and unkind to your flesh?

I lay in hell all the summer
waiting for you to remember
me fondly and call, but
the silence lay heavy around.
The flow’rs, they all died
in the vase that I kept by my window.
Oh, love – why as it been so long
since you whispered my name?

Must I die
without knowing
once more
the sweetest release?