Poem: 'Burlington County, 1984'

My friend (and wonderful poet), Jared (aka @the_babyfaced_poet) has started a video series on IG -- "The Best Words Show" -- featuring writers reading one of their works.

He kindly featured me this week, reciting a poem that was recently selected to be included in a new anthology, "New Jersey Bards Poetry Review 2025" -- available this month, with thanks to editor James P. Walker.

This particular poem was inspired by a workshop (to edit down something I've formerly written) from teacher/poet Michael Paul Thomas, and a prompt (about devils) from The NJ Poetry Circle, a supportive group that meets every Tuesday evening at The Sanctuary community space in Butler, NJ.

Below is Jared's video of me, after I had recited "Dover Beach" for his sound check and nervously laughed about how I used to recite it to my daughters as a lullaby when they were young -- followed by the text.

Thank you, Jared, James, Michael, and Sofia and all at the Poetry Circle (and thank you, Jordan, for letting me know about this place)...

Burlington County, 1984

Driving up the Jersey Turnpike,

skirting a million acres of acidic, sandy soil.

It’s almost dawn.

 

In the passenger’s seat

Hester closes her eyes, adjusts the halo

embroidered atop her California Angels cap,

and burrows under my letter jacket for warmth.

 

Bright Venus and the rising sun accent

the needles of the pines lining the highway,

casting shadows that flicker and tremble

like my desire.

 

I wish I may, I wish I might, now,

make the sun stand still below that distant horizon...

 

Af if my car were a Mason jar.

As if I could punch air holes in the top

and examine this curiosity named Hester

 

lazily stretching her butterfly limbs.

I would take my car in my hand

and hold the both of us up

to that faint and heavenly light.

 

This tiny version of myself I try to preserve

is me at my best, oblivious in young love,

blissfully teased by the Hand of Fate,

warm, palm up, resting on my thigh.

 

As if, in its lines, I could divine our future together.

As if I weren’t the Jersey Devil in disguise.

Short Story: 'JD at the Bar'

Inspired a recent LinkedIn post by the talented photographer and writer Mark Krajnak, and my obsession with the Jersey Devil.

Day of the Dead display

It's days like this I wish I'd never been born.

I had stumbled through the screen door of a bar named Murphy's in the middle of the afternoon. It was like the door at Holsten's in the series-ending episode of "The Sopranos." What did I expect? I'm in New Jersey, after all.

But here's the thing: I noticed right away that the bell above the frame didn't ring. The screen door slammed. Mary's dress didn't sway. (Oh yeah, to be even more of a Jersey cliché, I'm a Springsteen fan too). The door snapped shut with an angry thud right behind me.

Figures.

Next thing I knew, I was sitting alone at a counter, telling my tale of woe out loud to no one except the bartender.

"I kinda wanted a clap out," I began, chattering into the void. A cheap paper day calendar at the end of the counter reminded me it was Tuesday, the 23rd.

"Remember when our kids were little, and they would graduate kindergarten to first grade? On their last day of school, all the teachers and parents would line up on either side of the school doors and clap as the kids paraded out, and moved up and on the next thing..."

Earth Day, ironically. But you know what the Spanish say about Tuesdays: "En martes, ni te cases ni te embarques." Translation: "You don't get married or start a journey on a Tuesday." If you're a guy like me, you just wake up, make your bed, kiss your wife goodbye, and go to work.

"Well, today, after 20 years and 10 months, my time at J&J came to an end. I drove to the campus in Titusville, turned in my work computer and my J&J badge, which still had the photo taken on my first day in 2004 underneath my newer badge."

I snorted. "Ha! I let them have the new ID, but I kept that old one, by God."

The bartender, JD, the only other person at Murphy's, was now in the back room.

"Technically I was laid off, back in January. It's been a challenging 18 months. A lot of my team -- my friends and my colleagues around the world -- went through this, too. But I made out better than some. After being laid off, the company offered me a short-term assignment to get me past this 'milestone date' in April... so now I'm at least eligible for my pension."

I heard what sounded like claws on the hardwood floors. It was JD, scuttling back behind the bar, pretending he had heard every word.

I couldn't even make it home from work today. It's usually an hour-long drive, anyway, all the way from Franklin Township. But the damn Pine Barrens are on fire, so the Jersey Turnpike is closed. At the first exit I found, I saw the green neon "Murphy's" sign across the street. My wife and I used to go to a bar by that name in New York City when we were young and in love. This is where I knew I was destined to wait out the fire.

"You know about the Pine Barrens?" It was a stupid question.

"Sure do," said JD. "Lived here all my life. Twelve brothers and sisters. Can you believe it?"

"I believe anything is possible here," I said vacantly, as if I believed it. "Wherever here is."

"Where town," JD said.

"Where town?"

"Yup. Waretown. Close to the fire." He smiled, as if he were proud.

Waretown does indeed boarder the Pine Barrens, more than a million acres of sand-based soil in the center of Jersey. Rain here combines with acid from decaying pine needles and leaches minerals from the sand, forming bog iron that used to be mined in isolated communities. A few are now actual ghost towns.

Then there are the metaphorical ghost towns, like here, in Waretown, along Route 9. When I pulled over to call my wife and tell her, she said she knew I'd be late. I never surprise her anymore. She said the sky back home is bright orange.

JD and I briefly compared notes about the Pine Barrens. We both knew all about our doomed local ecology. Since the soil is acidic, forest litter simply accumulates. Things don't decompose. This prevents new layers of soil that might otherwise nourish new plants. Instead, the only vegetation that thrives here are the pine trees. Which are highly flammable.

And, today, April 23, 2025, everything erupted into flames.

And, Jesus, what a fire. I turned to watch the news reports on the bar's lone TV.

"They're calling it the Jones Road Fire," I called out to JD, who had turned his back to me.

"I know," he said. "Actually started small Sunday night."

"How do you know?"

"They always start small," JD smirked, and showed me his phone. It opened to Snapchat, a chain of text messages in an unidentifiable group chat.

"We caused the fire,'' texted someone with the initials E.H. on April 22, the same day the Cedar Bridge Fire Tower located a column of smoke coming from the area of Jones Road and Bryant Road in Ocean Township.

The newscaster added context, as if she were reading over my shoulder: "The fire quickly escalated into what has been described as one of the largest wildfires in Ocean County and New Jersey in the past 20 years."

"You better hope they don't figure out it was you assholes,'' someone had texted in response to E.H. 

E.H. replied that they weren't positive it was them, due to some rain the next day, "but there is a good possibility,'' adding an attachment of two photos of burning wood pallets on E.H.'s phone dated April 21. One was timestamped at 9:10 p.m. and the other at 10:15 p.m.

"Jesus, it was a bonfire," I said.

"Kids," JD shrugged.

"How do you know? How did you get this message? What group is this?"

"I don't know. People send me stuff all the time. I just stand back and wonder myself sometimes."

The newscaster added more details. "The arrested teenagers," she reported, "were telling investigators there were Mexicans in the woods that night, trying to cast blame for the fire on unknown agents who spoke in Spanish."

"Escucha las palabras de las brujas, los secretos escondidos en la noche, los antiguos dioses invocamos ahora la obra de la magia occulta," JD said.

"What?"

"Oh, that's something I hear the local high school girls chant in the woods behind the dumpster out back," he replied. "I have no idea what it means. Hell, I only know one other word in Spanish."

Just then I looked down at the floor and saw what I thought were two snakes intertwined.

I let out a frightened cry.

"Hey, hey, hey," JD said, patting me on the shoulder.

"I..." I pointed to the floor. Two electrical cords were lying unplugged next to a guitar amp with the "Monster" logo on top.

"Snakes...," I stammered, then regained my composure.

Damn, get ahold of yourself, I thought. What I said aloud was: "When did the music stop?"

"The folk singers? They left about an hour ago."

"Lilith & Andras, right?"

"Yeah, they need a new name."

Lilith played the violin and Andras played guitar and sang. Sure thing. I remembered them now. A few songs when the sun was setting: B-sides of Dylan tunes, a deep cut that Lilith said was by John Prine, although I had never heard it before. Andras sang a haunting version of "St. Augustine at Night" by Dawes, and he apologized for the length of the song when he finished.

That must have been hours ago. I'd lost track of time. It seemed I had been there so long I thought I had always been the only one at the bar. My brain was fogged.

But surely, I remembered Lilith. How could I forget? She had red hair. JD had offered to let the duo take the night off, but she said, "We need the practice. Besides, a gig's a gig."

"What time is it anyway?" I asked.

"Last call," JD said. "Here, try this. On the house."

He handed me a mixed drink.

"What's this?"

"Well, it's not mulled wine."

I looked at him quizzically.

"Hey, look mister," JD said with a smile and a wink, "We serve hard drinks in here for men who want to get drunk fast."

"I get it. 'It's a Wonderful Life,'" I replied

"Actually, it's a Murphy's special: applejack, triple sec, cranberry juice."

I took a mouthful. It had plenty of kick, but it was bittersweet.

"I don't think I'm in any condition to drink anymore. I should call my wife." I looked around. "Hey, where's my phone?"

"I didn't see you with a phone."

"I had a phone. Jesus, what do you really put in these drinks anyway? I need to call my wife."

I looked up at JD. Everything in the otherwise empty barroom was diffused in orange, a certain orange, the remnant of the dying light of the setting sun. The color of changing firelight. JD himself was partially obscured by a thin layer of smoke, which created an elongated shadow of his face when he turned toward me, as if he had the absurd guise of a horse or kangaroo. Not only that, but the stop-motion shadows of his swinging arms made him appear to have wings.

JD looked straight into my eyes and said, "You don't have a wife."

Chandelier sculpture by Ricky Boscarino

"What? That's crazy!" I lunged at JD and almost toppled over my barstool.

"Hey, hey! Easy there, mister."

"I have a wife!" I protested. "I'll call her. She'll come get me. Where's my phone?"

"You don't have a phone."

"I..." I patted my pockets. I couldn't locate my phone. I couldn't even locate my old J&J ID badge. "What the hell?"

JD shrugged. "It's like you've never been born."

"What?!?" I cried, and this time I did tumble off my stool to the floor.

JD came to my rescue. He knelt down and helped me, picking me up from behind and underneath my shoulders, as if I were a rag doll.

"Hey, that's OK," he said, after sitting me back down and making sure I didn't hurt myself. "I know you're good for the tab. Relax. Here, use my phone."

I looked stupidly at JD's phone and tried to make a joke.

"JD," I began, then made a lame attempt at a Jimmy Stewart impression, "now straighten me out here. Look, I got some bad liquor or something. Listen to me. Now, you're JD, and you're the bartender here at Murphy's, and we're in Waretown, and the Pine Barrens are burning."

"Right, right, right, and right."

"And I have a wife."

"That, I can't say."

"Well, if I had my own phone, I could prove it!"

I held out the phone he had offered, trying to process his odd response about my wife... trying to process the entire evening. Everything was tinged in orange.

"Here," JD said, in a patronizing note. "I'll call you an Uber."

He tried to take his phone back, but I wouldn't let him.

"TouchTunes," I said, pointing to his screen.

"The app? Sure. It controls the juke box."

"More music," I sighed. "That's what I need right now."

"Sure. Whatever you say."

At least the app knew where I was. Precisely. But I couldn't focus on its search bar.

"You got Bruce?" I asked.

"It's Jersey, right?" JD chuckled, finally taking back his phone. "What do you want to hear?"

"'Jungleland.'"

"'Jungleland,' it is..."

It's a song twice as long as "St. Augustine at Night." Soon the opening notes echoed in the empty barroom. It soothed me. Then the piano kicked in, and everything seemed to come into focus again.

Bruce began singing, "The Rangers had a homecoming in Harlem late last night..." Magic Rat rode his sleek machine, and I lost myself in the music: The guitar solo. The bridge. Clarence on the sax, changing the mood.

I wasn't drunk. I was listening to a song I'd heard a million times before.

Until the end. When I heard Bruce sing, "The devils down here don't do nothing at all. They just stand back and let it all be."

"That's not right!" I cried out. "Wait! That's not right!"

Soon Bruce was punctuating my words with his otherworldly howl.

"What happened to the poets?" I said, as the last sounds of the song faded to silence.

"What happened to the poets? The poets down here don't write nothing at all. They just stand back and let it all be."

"Hey, wait, don't get started again," JD said, just standing there, looking at me as if I were crazy.

"I'm not crazy! Didn't you hear the words?"

"Yeah," said JD, "The poets down here don't write nothing at all..."

"No. No. That's not right! I heard him singing about devils."

"Yeah, that's right, mister. Devils. I'm calling you a car. Where do you live, anyway?"

"Franklin Boulevard in Franklin," I answered confidently. "Near New Brunswick."

"Oh, I know Franklin Boulevard," JD said. "DeRussey's Lane."

"What?"

"Franklin Boulevard used to be called DeRussey's Lane. You know, when it was a dirt road that led to an abandoned farm. You know, the site of the Hall-Mills murders."

"The what?"

"Yup, the Hall-Mills murders. It's one of the most famous crimes in your hometown. You really don't know your Jersey history, do you?"

That was the last of my conversation with JD. I just couldn't.

Not only that, but it took a while for someone to come get me. JD didn't let me near his phone again. It was the end of a really bad day.

A few miles from us, the night was ablaze. According to the news reports still echoing behind the bar, the Jones Road Fire had rapidly escalated into one of the state's most significant wildfires in two decades. Fueled by dry conditions and strong winds, the fire consumed more than 15,000 acres across Ocean County, including Barnegat, Lacey, and Waretown townships.

Thick plumes of smoke darkened the skies, casting an eerie haze over the region and depositing ash across several communities. The fire's rapid expansion threatened more than 1,300 structures, necessitating the evacuation of around 5,000 residents. It caused power outages affecting more than 25,000 in the sparsely populated area. Emergency response teams were employing ground crews, bulldozers, and aerial water drops to combat the inferno. Despite their efforts, the fire remained only 10 percent contained while I sat with JD at the bar.

There were no fatalities. Save my sanity.

Soon I would be I heading home. Leaving Waretown... or Hell... for where?

Somewhere haunted in Franklin Township. Without a job. Maybe without a wife.

Sometime after midnight, I heard gravel crunch under the tires of parking car. As I finally turned my back to leave Murphy's, I dared not turn back to face JD.

"Addios," he called out after me.

I merely waved a dismissive goodbye with my left hand and headed toward the screen door with the bell that doesn't ring.

But I heard another noise loud and clear.

At first, I didn't understand the slow, sharp sounds... like crackling flames... from behind me.

But then, I sensed an ever-quickening rhythm, and I knew it was the perfect end to this God-forsaken day.

JD was giving me a clap out.

The sky over suburban New Jersey

Why I Haven't Broken Up With New York

This week, I had two moments with The New Yorker magazine.

First, I received a rejection email from their poetry department for something I had submitted, I kid you not, 27 months ago -- which, admittedly, is only less than 4 months in dog years.

Second, I read a thought-provoking essay published by those same bastard hounds. Titled "Why I Have Broken Up With New York," Lina Dunham writes, "Most people accept the city’s chaos as a toll for an expansive life. It took me several decades to realize that I could go my own way."

It's wonderfully written, and Lina speaks from much more experience with New York than I have had. Also, I understand her love of London, by comparison.

But I haven't broken up with New York. I'm still in love.

On visits this past week to the city, I've had the pleasure of people-watching the Manhattan streets from the M50 crosstown bus in the rain, watching an enjoyable film -- "The Penguin Lessons," complete with its homage to a favorite poem, "A Quoi Bon Dire" by Charlotte Mew -- at the Angelika; listening to a friendly and diverse circle of amateur Irish fiddlers and other musicians at the Slainte pub in the Bowery; listening to a nearly private performance of folk covers by Mae & Henry at the new Jameson's on 50th (if you ever see them, ask Henry to play "St. Augustine at Night"); fist bumping Mr. and Mrs. Met in Union Square and meeting Strat-O-Matic founder Hal Richmond at the Mets House; strolling on the new East Side Walkway under the 59th Street Bridge and the trams to Roosevelt Island; and mixing with the crowd huddled around my favorite painting, Van Gogh's "Starry Night," at the MOMA.

Today, I also finally toured the sculpture garden outside the U.N. building. Years ago, it was open to the public, but now there's heavy security everywhere. This season's first guided-tour ticket to view the gardens was at 10:30 this morning, led by a French woman with flaming red hair and oversized sunglasses who apologized profusely that the Rose Garden was not yet in bloom.

I took the photos scattered throughout this post, including the ironic shot of Irish immigrants setting foot in America with the Trump World Tower looming in the background.

On the brief walk from my daughter's apartment building to the U.N., I had passed a giant inflatable rat on the sidewalk outside the German Consulate, as construction workers blowing air horns protested Eurostruct Inc.'s wages and work rules. A block further south, a disheveled man carried a large wooden cross, then held it up in front of the Trump building and started to pray.

I could go at least 27 months in suburban New Jersey without hearing all the languages I heard from 10 a.m. to noon today, without seeing all the art I saw, without seeing anyone -- no matter how loud or disheveled -- on the sidewalks in protest or in prayer.

To me, time in this city moves like dog years in reverse. So many things are possible in so short a time.

Here in New York, despite all its flaws... and in the words of another favorite poem... the world still sometimes seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new.

Experiment in Flash Fiction: Date Night in April

The scene: It’s Date Night at a local BYOB restaurant my wife and I frequent.

It’s relatively empty, so we have our choice of one of the big tables by the front windows, overlooking the firehouse across the street. We like this restaurant. They always serve a salad, with bread and vegetables, with every entrée... and also a side of pasta, ziti in tomato sauce.

There’s another table of four in the same section. Two couples, older white men and their nervous wives, split a single red bottle. They are talking about Medicare costs and their health problems, and the man facing me has his napkin tucked in his open shirt, just below his double chin. He reminds me of my father.

My last dinner with Dad was at a favorite local restaurant, like this one. Midway through the meal, Dad spilled mashed potatoes on his tie, and he was mortified with embarrassment. He looked right at me, hoping I wouldn’t notice. I looked away to pretend I didn’t.

I’ll say this about Dad: He would never wear a napkin tucked into the top button of his shirt, like a child wearing a bib. Except for that, the man in the BYOB was the same age as my Dad was then, with the same thinning hair and the same Mens Warehouse jacket.

As the group of four droned on about money and failing health, it occurred to me that my father’s tieless doppelganger was about the same age as I am now. Maybe just a little bit older. My Dad died in his early 70s, a few days after he spilled the mashed potatoes on his tie.

I had sensed, before this last supper, he was nearing the end of his life. He had so many ailments: heart attacks, hip replacements, high blood pressure. He had quit smoking when my daughter was born, but before that, he had spent five decades smoking two packs of Kents every day.

The man wearing the bib addressed his group. “Let’s get the f*ck out of here,” he said, taking a last swig of his red wine as if he were a Viking, and dabbing his mouth with the folded end of his tomato sauce-stained napkin as if he were a princess. His shirt, protruding over his stomach, was clean and brilliantly white.

Dad would never swear like that, even among friends.

I didn’t finish my dinner completely. I try to watch my weight and no longer overeat. Plus, I like having a nice lunch with what I take home from the restaurant the day after Date Night. I typically save the pasta, which my wife never touches, and half of my entrée.

The next day, while eating lunch, I spilled a forkful of ziti over one of my favorite blue shirts, a Haggar in Motion stretch top. I feverishly tried to remove the stain with cold water and a washcloth from the bathroom. If my daughter saw me wearing this shirt right now, she might be unable to guess what I had done.

But I still see the ghost of the red stain. Over my heart, I see something that can’t be removed.

I am embarrassed for myself for the spill. I didn’t have a napkin tucked at my neck. I am like my father.

I fear my imminent death.

About That Poem: 'Byzantium in Jersey'

My grandfather, 1969, Budd Lake

This is the poem I read at the S.P.E.A.K. open mic in March at the Puffin Cultural Forum in Teaneck, NJ.

I began my reading by reciting from memory the first part of a favorite poem, "Sailing to Byzantium" by Yeats. The workshop before the open mic was about structure in poetry, and I have always appreciated the subtle structure of Yeats' masterpiece -- 10 beats per line with an ab/ab/ab/cc rhyme in each of its stanzas.

I was also pleased to read in Robert Pinsky's autobiography "Jersey Breaks" that "Sailing to Byzantium" was a favorite of his too.

So, with apologies to those two great poets, here's the full text of my homage:

Byzantium in Jersey

 

This, my grandfather, in his Sunday best:

a cigarette dangling from its holder,

a tattered suit, a worn Italian vest,

with me at his side, decades less older.

He does not hold my hand. There is no rest.

He lectures as we walk, points my shoulders

to Monarch butterflies in flight toward me

along the shores of Budd Lake, New Jersey.

 

This, a back country road, is my classroom:

milkweed, honeysuckle, red columbine,

hummingbirds, spotted touch-me-nots in bloom,

blue robins’ eggs, goldenrod, dandelions.

My grandfather names them for me, assumes

I will remember that sparrow, that vine,

the chicory, those edible lilies,

the mew of mimicking catbirds we see.

 

Like the sage I loved, these vanished from me.

 

I live in the suburbs, reminisce now

about ancestors. One Sunday, I walk

the Hackensack riverbank in a drought.

A murder of crows chase a gyring hawk,

then roost in the sun on a golden bough.

Hearing their echoing caws, I pause, stalked.

This, I know, is my father’s father’s song

of what is past, or passing, or to come.

---------

Here's a video of my reading:

Tomorrow Is Yesterday

Like Charlie Brown running toward a kickoff with Lucy spotting the football, I submit poems every year for the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards sponsored by The Poetry Center at Passaic County Community College.

Every year, I never hear anything back. Undaunted, I asked my wife to choose what I should submit this past January. These were new poems I wrote following weekly prompts by New Jersey poet Dimitri Reyes.

She picked out several, but not one of my favorites, "Tomorrow Is Yesterday," referencing a "Star Trek" episode that aired in 1967.

I took another look at it after attending a Tuesday "Poetry Circle" at The Sanctuary in Butler. The evening's prompt was "brave new worlds." I immediately thought of "strange new worlds" and revised my poem a bit (no piece of writing is ever "finished" in my world).

Then I read it this past Thursday at Boonton Coffee's monthly open mic. That's me in the photo, taken by the talented poet Renee. Thank you, Renee, and thank you, NJ Poetry Circle.

Tomorrow Is Yesterday

 

It’s a Thursday night in January 2025,

And I have conjured my father in this poem.

 

Dad is 58 years younger,

And we are in the same living room in New Jersey.

 

He has boldly returned from the dead, 

And we are watching “Star Trek” together.

 

Suddenly, on the liquid dilithium crystal TV display,

Multicolored lights begin to flash. Sirens sound.

 

Dad holds tight to the arms of his chair,

Rocking side to side in an exaggerated motion.

 

We are aboard the Starship Enterprise,

Slingshotting around the sun fast enough to reverse time.

 

Arriving on a Thursday night in January 1967,

The day 2 feet of snow fell in Chicago.

 

My father sits in his easy chair, 58 years ago,

775 miles away from the storm.

 

He is a metaphorical thousand miles away from me

In the same room where I am a frightened boy,

 

Nestled on a worn orange Danish modern couch,

Who now clearly foresees his father’s death.

 

I join my former self there,

Wrapping my small body with a protective arm.

 

I whisper in my ear:

“It’s OK, it’s OK, it’s OK.”

 

Then a tractor beam envelops me and my past.

Its light absorbs us.

 

My grasp on myself dissolves.

Credits begin to roll, and I am transported

 

By the otherworldly vessel of this poem,

Back to my living room in January 2025...

 

Where it’s snowing in New Jersey.

An implanted image has wormed into my brain.

 

I see Dad, seemingly asleep, in a ghostly chair.

He has become Captain Kirk at the conn.

 

In this strange new world,

He still changes my future forever.