context of my last post


“I have to cancel our scheduled practice for the next Thursday night, as one of the regulars at the Palace
died suddenly on a camping trip with his college roommates. GaryU2 was a long serving city
representative in Norwich, Connecticut’s local government. He changed the lives of so many people
through his compassionate politics, that it was hilarious to reconcile his love of heavy metal, as well as
his fastidious commitment to U2. Anne and I went to the wake; and you could sense how hard this
sudden shock had wounded his kids. I knew the three of them empirically from the Palace; but this was
new territory. They were in a place I had been many times before.

“Long day, huh?” I said quietly to his oldest son, a teenager.
“Oh, yeah…” he replied. But there was a sense of relief, that maybe I had lessened his burden by recognizing it.
“Your dad was a great man, always remember that.”
“Thanks for coming.”

an excerpt from “THIS IS NOT SLANDER”

CC Poem

waiting for the break to break
for the pressure that has
over time
amassed and disrupted the peripheral priorities
the restless ones
the ones where longing lingers
the ones that lead me
lie to me
tell me what I want to hear when I want to hear it – they are sweet nothings

the whispers wash over me in waves
they swirl and eddy
they push and pull and vie for attention
some undue
some worthy of




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i recently perused the CD
you gave me
of photographs of the U2 show
at foxboro.

and now you cannot speak for yourself
the tidal wave that took your life and forced us to ask
is there really a God?
who could believe this circumstance?
the depth of a recognizance
we were tasked to come to terms with

begat an avalanche of an inescapable reality.
as witnesses, we were then
asked to confront the fact that

death is always at the door.
living is within every door,
and you taught me that.

I don’t know what to title it

I don’t know what to title this piece of writing.
It feels like a suicide note, but there’s no way it could possibly be such a thing.
But I do hate the demon.
Always lurking.
Maybe it’s a homicide note.
DEMON must die.
Doesn’t make sense.
It’s inside me.
It is me.
I made it.
It’s mine.
So what do I do?

There’s a certain pain to it.
Like a sickness.
Always there.
Always lurking.
Sometimes fine.
Sometimes nasty.
Sometimes nastier than most.
So, how then?
Who then?
What do I do, then?

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The night’s dream: The whole Board, plus people from my past, all traveling around metropolitain Groton/New London in a huge van/cube van/camper van thing, drinking, doing drugs, having sex, and fighting cops.

My god! On the train to Dublin after flooding night morning rain sitting reading thinking lonling the Sun Almighty Sun busts out and the clouds grow white and blue sky and to my right is an Irish pot o’gold rainbow. I have seen the sun! I know that the world still lives on but the further north I roll the darker and greyer and uglier it gets. But that few scant moments of light sky blue sun rainbow lift me up up up and beyond these storm clouds from Hell!

(Letter to Megen, 1:40PM)
God fucking damn I’m lonely and bored on this train to Dublin. I’m bored of reading and logging my thoughts and writing and the batteries in my piece of shit Walkman just died, like my soul. She’s lost controooolll. Before I slip into obliv-Ian, I would kill to give you one more long, deep kiss. I miss you and see you everywhere.
I just left my relatives in this tiny backwards pissant backroad not even on the map town. One of my “cousins” owns a pub and they got me hammered. I look like shit and feel it, too, so no one will even ever talk to me unless it is travel questions, like the latest “Is this the Dublin train?” because I guess I look like a traveler.
I wrote this poem, if you will, in a pub in Galway, alone. {Reader, see Quays poem on 11/17/1989, if you want. I am not writing it here again.} Murphy’s is another kind of stout.
Everything is so green here and I finally caught glimpse of blue sky and sun, as it is always grey.
When my relatives started getting drunk, they talked much faster and it did not sound like English and I could not understand them, so they stopped talking.
I dream of home and can see everyone. I am about three days ahead of where I should be because I have to see my friend Maura in London real soon or I’ll go fuckin’ to pieces.
Rich gave me some crazy stone and his crystal neck-hanger-holder-whammyshamalammy to hold it in and it keeps me relatively sane. I am 5 hours ahead of you guys so I have to wait to figure out where people are and then I grab the stone thru my shirts and layers and just hold on a picture them and I can actually see them, like I saw Relics in the basement last night.
Come get me.
In Galway, I hooked up with some potheads and they got me baked on hash. I thought it was resin at the time. They roll jibbers that are like three papers long and pretty thick because the shit is so shitty it takes that much to get you high.
I eat once a day, dinner, and that usually is not much.
By the time this reaches you, I should be in Manchester, England.
See you soon.
PS…Dublin sucks. I’m already waiting for a bus to a ferry to Liverpool, putting me six days ahead of schedule.

Dublin could not be any lamer if it tried. Changed cheque into cash and straightaway to the ferry people. Two pints in The Harp and small talk with some normal-type young guy. I actually saw a mirror. Oh man, I’m looking pretty sick.

Into the ferry bus train station and a pumped up postcard to Dolph. In walks a 19 year old girl with a white kindda bridal wedding type hat on. Not a veil, but, a strangely formal hat. Compliment the hat and we are instant friends, sharing smokes and complaints about the Republic. Crystal blue perfectly rounds eyes and short hair, overalls and Doc Martins. She lives in Belfast and compares the two cities. No comparison. Smokers cough of Hell passed off as pneumonia, she reads poetry and listens to Cocteau Twins and Pink Floyd. Smoke head? I don’t dare ask. Brown leather jacket, beat to shit and old is all she has to keep her warm and she reads poetry and buys my last stamps from e to mail postcards to her friends back home, where she is bound.

What seems like days and weeks and years is only two and a half hours and I am on the top layer of 2x layer bus, front left seat and the adventure continues. Man and son sit very rear. Son is having a lesson on money. “90 and a half.” But soon Pops grows bored and asks if the kid wants to go to sleep but like all kids, no.

This is so sick! 40’ in the air on roads of city design! Every bump is exaggerated. I hope the boat isn’t like this.

All the crazy professional traveling youngsters are here. They search kicks and I search Truth. The difference.

From what I have seen, these boats are no Cross Island Sound Cape Henlopen toys. These things mean business. Aircraft carrier size!

Trendy fuckers. “Daddy, send more cash. We make friends everywhere”, said with dizzy smile and eyes slightly out of focus and head swaying back and forth.

Luxury Liner comfort barge. Not Love, but Stranger Boat. This thing is incredible and for only £20! Large safety zone buffer areas surround each person or clique. Walkmen breakout and books amongst the singles and I am the only one writing. Pub rug, comfortable seats and couches around the walls and tables and a pleasant lighting, and warm! Hanging like loop-de-loop curtains mark the outside wall and pleasant voiced lady calling “Tommy Such and So, telephone call. Please report to the information desk.” Shiny like mirror metal stainless on ceiling for décor.

Holy shit! Jack just walked by! I am getting closer by the day to finding it, smoking butt like JK on way to just opened ship bar.

Irish women come in three flavors: Beautiful, cute, and stone ugly.

Meeting older people is easier than meeting the Youth because age brings Truth.

Watching the Irish-French 4-year old cute little spoiled girl go nuts on sugar and the already tired parents drinking pints grow even more tired but by god they keep giving her more sugar and wonder why they can’t control her.

The Youth safety margins filled in with older folks as time passed and we are under way.

Mother daughter and her son speak of dead relatives and eldest goes off when she hears I’m from CT. Long drawn out story of other daughter in Fairfield County w/ husband landscaping for Paul Newman and the Irish mother of the young sugar daughter visited Uncasville. All from spreading joy in the form of 20 free smokes to the daughter of the elder mother and even as far as matches to a cigar smoking horny father groping the mother while the son tries to remain blind to it. Oh, what that must be doing to his young head. Elder mother just gave me a sandwich and, joy! Truth and all comes full circle.

The boat begins to reel and I can’t wait to see the drunk’s reaction!

Bitter. What is this bitter feeling I have for people involved in living their own lives? Where did it come from and why? Loneliness? Spend spend spend on beer and things they can’t afford and video games even worse and more violent than those in America and drawn to the telly and food if it is available but why? £2.50 on a cheeseburger for a stuffed 10 year old, who, by the way, took two bites and threw it out! He told me he’s been smoking since he was 5 but changed his story and said that he had a cigarette which he showed me and said it was for a 17 year old friend who was stowed away upstairs. Bad, bad kids.

3:40AM and JK and party just got fresh pints of lager. I, eating a sandwich, realize that I do not need sleep. Christ, if Kerouac was Irish I would swear that this guy in front of me was him! Slumped over on couch and you would swear Ginsberg was sitting next to him, but isn’t.

In Wales, en route to Liverpool! 4AM. Bus driver is very skinny youngerish guy drinking tea. How did I with drug helmet get thru customs without a glance and innocent old man gets stopped? Kerouac and Ginsbergette are on this bus. All other backpacker trendies are going to London. Fuckers. Lame-os.

The Moon! I can see stars!! My god, am I happy.

Holyhead is the same as Ireland.

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The Balance of Power

The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.


a new photo narrative featuring Model: Jane Alice
as my LIBRA
for the new series: Personal Universe, an astrological study starring the model stable of Michelle Gemma (2017-2018)
Photograph by Michelle  Gemma
27 July 2018
Stonington Boro, CT  USA
Full Moon Lunar Eclipse

featuring the Poem:
Edge      by      SYLVIA PLATH





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“Are we there yet, Daddy?” asked little four-year old Charlie from his car seat.

My son had asked the question many times on our drive to the beach. As I pulled into the parking lot, I could finally reply, “Yes, Charlie, we’re here!”

My wife Heather and I grabbed all of the beach gear out of the back of the car. We could hear the massive ocean waves crashing in the distance.

Heather coated Charlie in several thick layers of sunscreen, while I set up the chairs and umbrella beside the already established camp of Charlie’s Aunt Shannon and Grandpa Joe.

“Wow, check out those waves!” called out Joe. Charlie was already wandering towards the shore.

I grabbed Charlie and jogged into the surf and put him onto my shoulders as the first big wave hit.

I jumped up, so both of us just barely kept our heads above water. Charlie yelled in delight, “Here comes another, Daddy!” We bobbed again, and I had to hold my legs sturdy to keep from getting us both knocked over.

I was starting to get tired from fighting the waves with Charlie on my shoulders, so I took him down, holding him in my arms, and turned to get to a shallower spot.

I looked towards our umbrella back on the shore, hoping to see Charlie’s mom, Aunt Shannon, and Grandpa Joe watching us have such a fine time playing. All three were waving frantically at us. They were yelling something, but I couldn’t hear them over the roar of the breakers.

“Dad, look out!” yelled Charlie. He smiled up at me, his face full of sunshine, his hair glistening with salt water.

The colossal wave hit hard, smashing me down and into the sand, scraping my knees and elbows into rocks and sharp shells. Charlie’s hand jerked out of mine as I tumbled several times beneath the chaos of the crashing wave.

I had no idea where I was.

I had no idea where he was.

I scrambled frantically in the water, tossing my arms in every direction trying to make contact with lost Charlie. The current was still swirling around me and my grasps were empty.

Another wave crashed into us and something bumped into my wrist and then was gone. I pushed towards where it had been and felt it again, too soft to be a rock, too tough to be seaweed, and I knew I had just for one moment grabbed Charlie’s arm with my left hand. I reached out again and got hold of his arm and pulled him close and surfaced.

Charlie was laughing hysterically.  He looked me in the eyes and yelled, “Let’s do that again, Daddy!”


Up with a jump after 12 hours sleep, as that is the cheapest way to do things, and into the station for an hour’s wait for a train to Mallow. I’m starting to look and feel like real road scum, but I’ve never felt better.

Old bum knows Truth. Not bottled Truth, but spiritual. And he also knows on this Sunday morning that Truth cannot be found in the church but is out in the street with the people. And that Truth is found within himself.

As I entered the station, I saw a pigeon walking around eating up bits of whatever. Enter the Railway Man, with his mop to clean up bits of whatever from under the roost that the pigeons keep.

Two girls sit to my left. I brush my teeth in the railway bathroom. Soon but not soon enough the ticket window has a figure behind it. Ticket to Mallow via Limerick Junction by bus to train. Outside now, near bus slots, a bus pulls in. “I will miss no more buses! “, the Post Warrior vows. And he asks the driver. “No.” Back to the outside station wall and the girls come up behind me, saying “We are following you.” I must really look like a traveler! Pride and I am happy. They are from South Shore Long Island en route to London to meet friends.

Limerick Junction Station is small and cold and blue. This is one hell of an adventure. I looked at my black & white photo of Megen and I miss her. But I cannot bring myself to listen to her Death tape, as I must keep my spirits high.

My god! Some how, I got on the nutty weirdo circus car express to some crazy hell or worse. A fat, queer in the American sense strange-o sits to my front right, listening to a radio bigger than his already very large head, or gets up and runs up and down the aisle. The nut in back of me sits listening to the songs playing in his head and rocks his head back and forth as if to say “No”, but to a beat. Every time the conductor comes by he asks for a ticket “if you don’t mind” to someplace else and upon hearing the cost says “What if I said I know Pat?” and the conductor says “That is the same price I would pay. That’s fair (fare?).”

Fat tourist American executive and his wife sit three seats up and to the right. I think of my own parents traveling Europe and laugh. A crazy nut and his wife sit right in front of me. Testament to Irish inbreeding. What great fun! All look at me with drug helmet concealing three or two day old unwashed hair and terrorist jacket and crazy beard and all think that I am the nut!

The countryside is beautiful green hilly with cows and small trees growing against oldoldold walls of fence and farm. Late November and the grass and trees are still green! Thousands of millions of hundreds of cows everywhere in every plot and field, but where is the sun? Even the crows have a brogue and the black and white Heckle and Jeckle birds tell me that what I am doing is right. Soon to Castletownroche and the crazy John Seamus Pat cousins and Mum.

The walk into Mallow was escorted by a swearing mad Londoner who was roped into moving to this “primitive country, more primitive than the Wild West ever was” by his wife. Man, was he pissed.

Walking the back road to Castletownroche with a car every 5 minutes and no one stopping no matter what I did, save one crazy young 30ish man in a bomb like my ‘Bird back home. He was going to Castletownroche anyway, so no biggy and off we went at 50MPH around this skinny turny curvy back road, balling it up and down hill until we were in the town.

Into the pub straight away, greeted by John who looked at me and my big rucksack mess and I guess they don’t get much road suck Post Warriors in this tiny town. He failed to recognize me even when I told him I was here two years ago, but Pat knew me after he removed my beard in his head and I gave them the picture of their “Auntie Eilly” (my father’s mother) and the rest of the family, thus ending my Irish quest. But they still didn’t seem too hospitable until I ate some chicken and potatoes in three flavors and went for a five mile walk at a blistering pace with Max the Dog chasing sticks and Anne the nurse who travels the world and now I shall have a shower and feel much better as the sweat rolls down my sweat stained back, and I will feel better.

Cold, cold, colder the shower of ice washes over me slowly.

(Letter to Rich)
10:30 pub in Castletownroche. Band playing slow, mellow jams of Eagles and other American bands, and Irish covers, and their own. The drummer is playing some pretty good riffs. You bastards should be practicing, as the stone you gave me tells me that you are in the “studio rehearsal hall”. Pints run free, stouts of Guinness and a Cork Murphy’s, which is good and should go international intercontinental. “You guys suck” is all I can think, knowing the opposite. Sadness comes into my head via the speakers and a crowd grows.

Drunk and back only two drinks, one full pint I have paid and tomorrow I leave Castletownroche, rain or shine, and probably rain. The last 15 minutes of some old Laurence Olivier movie plays in the house parlor, after the pub closed. All I can think is that it is an American training film for greed, sex and cocktails.

In bed, under seven layers, SEVEN, of sheets, blankets, comforters, lays the cold Knight Post for a cold Post night!

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i walk toward
work in downtown mystic,
amidst our recent heat wave.
the pavement dissolves into
a blur of recognizance.

the sidewalk is dry.
however, my footsteps raise
no dust.

a car pulls into
the parking spot
in front of the local
health food store.
a window slowly unrolls,
defining the progress
of electronic sensors.

“could you tell me how to get to Mystic Seaport?”
“Eric Bogosian!”
“Cool. Ok, take the first left after the Drawbridge, at the flagpole.”

“and next?”

“take the left turn at the next stop sign at Route 27. The Seaport lot will be up on your right about two blocks.”
“thanks, kid…”
his wife smiled at me, and turned toward the windshield.


Hungover as all Hell in a hostel lies the Post Spoiled American Warrior, missing his friends and girlly and ready to kill for even a warm glass of Tropicana Pure Premium OJ.

The law says that in order to be a nightclub, a meal must be served. To do this most cheaply, the place we were last night charges a £3 cover and gives you some good drinking and dancing, slop & rice. Pretty good idea.

I am in the Select Bar, for pub grub, on Shop Street. Good food, great soup and pretty good prices. It looks really la-dee-dah, but isn’t. Full of regulars, they took me in with no problems.

Back in Quays, waiting for the artist, from last night, to arrive at 3. 2:30 now and so bored. Body still in pain from last night. I crave no beer or cigarette, just a hot bath, some good OJ, and my friends. Megen’s crazy depressed tape plays on shitty $15 Walkman with even shittier £4 earphones. Little ones, that go in earholes, attached to headband. What is she doing to me? She knows I will listen to her tape the most and it is even more depressing than Tarbox’s! Black Death on magmatic media.

Coke bottle empty and 10 more minutes until artist arrives. He has to make it on time, because my bus leaves for Mallow at 3:15.

* Quays on Quay Street, visit it, very nice.

3:02 – where is the bastard?!? I NEED my beret, muthafucka!

The kid didn’t show so all I have is a drug helmet, with my growing longer dirty hair sticking out the back. And I saw my bus, the Cork bus, cruising down the street from the station as I take the diagonal path across the park in the middle of Galway City and I have to stay here now until 6 and will only get as far as Limerick tonight. Limerick sucks. It is dead.

I started reading “Lonesome Traveler” while sitting out in the cold in front of the station, but it got too cold so I finished my reading session in the pub/lounge. Not drinking or smoking and listening to everyone and some old drunks can’t remember who ordered the last pint. All want to drink it, none want to pay for it.

Long, dark bus ride to Limerick finds me thinking sleeping hearing smelling seeing my friends. Megen’s Death tape plays on and on and on. Midway through trip, bus stop, five girls get on. One sits next to me and we say nothing. At bus stop in Limerick, she gets off and says “Thank you. Nice to see you.” The Irish are really truly nice people.

* The best cure for loneliness is to keep on moving.

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