The broken column forms a barrier
To protect the fruit of life’s interior.
One eye in blue—a painted memory,
The heart of perspicacious lethargy.
As Wilhelm looks out to the water, regrets
And scruple scrape within his tired head,
Much as the wreckage scrapes against the grain
Of ripples twinkling ‘neath the golden rain.
The group of three are huddled tight and close,
As they approach the narrow, tapered road
That serves to take them, and the other schools,
To where they’ll have a patriotic view.
The definition: a point of reference to
Ensure that future measurements are true
To what’s been pointed out (with cracking,
Crimson heft) as firm, supported backing.
Within the entrance to a place of treats,
Two opulent bouquets of common wheat
Tied up in threads that are much dearer than
The flaxen bundles that they do contain.
He humbly bows his head, but it’s his style
To confidently flaunt a croaking smile
That’s been stained by the strawberries and beets
And red-wine pickled onions that he eats.
Two girls look out upon the British oil,
Their green eyes soft, and hair contained in coils
Beneath fine coverings. They guard the scene
To keep it safe for other hijab queens.
The court has judged that businesses abutting
Cannot have the same name. It matters nothing
If the coloring is different,
Or if the words are written right to left.
Of three faces, it’s the one with the broken nose
And Chevron mustache who, dolefully, knows
That those who play—fenced in across the street—
Are more sprightly than he will ever be.
Under the shadow of a former palm,
The old-time cars line up with shiny chrome,
Waiting for girls on roller-skates to bring
To rolled-down windows sweet dollar egg-creams.
The woman with the pigtails and blue blouse
Stares out, a block away from her clay house,
At an impressive tree that’s grown so massive
It’s broken through the hutch that it inhabits.
At breakfast time, the Goose was so obsessed
With Raisin Bran, and Frosted Mini Wheats,
And Apple Jacks, the owner of the place
Was forced to lock them up in a red cage.
We all know that the boardwalk’s rife with bees—
So many soda cans and sugary treats—
But don’t you bother with those bees today.
Instead, seek out the one painted with spray.
A tree that’s grown from strength, compassion, pride,
And dignity has flourished lush and wide.
The faces in the leaves observe, with wonder,
As a bicyclist seeks out a lucky corner.
Are you the type who loves to jump and jive,
But are having trouble hearing your 45’s?
The Goose can get you right with just two steps:
Some medicated drops, and a Q-tip.
The blue-eyed chef has left behind his rolling
Pin to pose beside a fan. While holding
Up his thumb, he gives a smile bold,
And shifts his feet to cover up his gold.
The babes with instruments all jump and sing
And flit excitedly with their fair wings.
They know the treasure that the searcher seeks,
And when he’s near, they give him a bold wink.
Ms. Lopez brings some chips and quesadillas
Out to her seven friends on the side terrace.
She’ll bring some churros when the meal is done—
They need to get some meat upon their bones.
The Kingston waters bear the ocean’s fruit:
The native blue fish and the flat-backed fluke.
They’re gutted right there on the jutting land
Within the little gate where two poles stand.
Two cases sweep you up and off the shore,
And take you to a spot where there is more
Than enough shade. Within the dusky limbs,
A single light glows, ominous and dim.
The rhino saunters through the neon door,
All dinged and dented, weary to the core.
He feels as though he’s been hit by a brick,
And trusts that a stiff drink will do the trick.
The feline with the eager eyes is still,
Observing from her seat next to the wall.
She’s keen for the inevitable splatter
Delivered from the whisks of yellow batter.
Before you learn to speak, you must acquaint
Yourself with the basics that Ram Khamhaeng
Has forged. Under the shadow of a lush tree,
You take the first steps on your lingual journey.
The window on the ocean street is where
The caffeinated customer strips bear
And eases himself, slow, into the tub
That’s perfumed with some lush, acrogen shrubs.
Back in the days of the above-ground El,
The infrastructures of the great stores swelled
With Art Deco and Romanesque design,
Or so it says upon the metal sign.
The people sit in seats of three bright colors,
Observing purple cones and bright rugosas,
And think upon the celebrated day
That Texans learned of Order Number Three.
The full weight of the pair of ironclads
Is borne by one imperishable lad
Who, naked, twists the e’re unyielding rope
One time around a firm embankment post.
From six high houses, lofty refrains ring
As every resident joins in and sings—
The altos, tenors, and sopranos fly
Into a pleasing blend of lullabies.
The Snowy, Barn, and Eastern Screech have found
A place where they can scan the ample grounds
For voles. The chickens, rams, and donkeys watch
From out along the ordered rows of crops.
Don’t wonder too much about the pH
Of the drinks at this fresh, friendly, local place.
Just sit there, happy, on your fuchsia bench,
And let your carbonated thirst be quenched.
The hanging yellow bellies of the swines
Abut the concrete as they sit, reclined.
They watch the sportsmen with distinct mistrust
As they lay on the ab machines and thrust.
The building on the beach was built for those
Who didn’t want to pay too much for lunch,
But VIPs can still find their lot there
Within the door at the bottom of the stairs.
The bashful Beagle hurried off to hide
Himself between two benches on the side.
His owner went excessive with the clippers
And now he feels like a four-legged stripper.
Over Catskills, they ventured to the vale,
With lush pashmina coats over the pair
of them—two beaus, who felt they were equipped
Enough with love to set off on the trip.
The view from on the promenade is grand—
The Height of what a Brooklynite demands
From her fair city, and it’s partially
In part to one well-wishing family.
The bichromatic butterfly has asked
A question: Is it art? The passers, tasked
With answering, appraise the painted surface,
And contemplate the thing’s original purpose.
It’s eaten, yet the memory persists
For days upon my insatiable lips:
The pepperoni, dripping with hot grease
Within the bends of slowly melting cheese.
These apricots and nectarines are great
To munch on in the primordial shade,
But when you reach the middle of the fruit,
Beware, or else you just might chip a tooth.
He shares his father’s name, as well as his taste
For sitting outdoors, after a long day
Of slinging cheesecake, to indulge upon
A white martini on his silver throne.
This one-stop shop for coffee and for gear
Is where a rain-soaked horseman might appear
Brandishing his fine, brisure-laden shield
Where heraldic achievements are revealed.
If, like a French clown, you have got the blues,
And need a little pick me, this muse
Can help de-rust your creativity,
And it’s as effortless as ABC.
The chambers boast their resinous contents:
Two totems—one of wall and one of fence.
Predominant they seem rather than wrought,
Adjacent to a laurel splashed with spots.
The peated, straight, and single malt are housed
Within a place for those who travel down
One step to this famous distillery
That serves a vast, royal community.
Behind the legion of America,
A somewhat hidden, patriotic bird
Observes the crossed, as yet unfinished scene
With hard blue eyes and quilt resplendent wings.
A bench, always desired by the man;
A couple in a world that is insane;
A porter with a dash before her cheek—
All in the shade of the greene tulip tree.
This downtown dime is shrouded in repair,
So finding the oarsman and bricklayer
Who guard your gold may be a daunting task,
So look, instead, for wood-encrusted glass.
The Goose is queued up at the London Booth,
Not for the telephone, but just to use
The ATM. He keeps his fingers crossed
That his fragile account’s not overdrawn.
A quasar lights the sky. The residents
Who occupy the small Andean inn
Rove out into the courtyard on the corner
And look up with domesticated wonder.
The green flames lick the drooping shoulder blade
Of the lavender man. His downcast gaze
Thinks on the gnarled gate on the other side
Which, even after dark, is still bright white.
The kings, stompers, and bluejays have dissolved
Into a spinning mass that now revolves
Around the love of sport. The stubs are sold
Under the flickering glow of red and gold.
The white bird with the upturned beak looks down
Upon the busy rush of his new town,
While Susan sitting off and to the side,
Appraises, jealously, his yellow eye.
At this Italian restaurant, two black
Depictions occupy a pallid gap:
A music maker with a patterned horn,
And overhead, a kettle well adorned.
A voice like honey whispers “kiss me,” while
Two sugar-frosted lips curve to a smile,
As two dark birds confer upon their fruit,
And gold glints out from behind thick bamboo.
The laundry, sadly, won’t be done today.
The one who washes it has run away
From the hibiscus bush that’s down the street
Which, to his clear chagrin, is rife with bees.
Within the year that Grant defeated Greeley,
A local George did set aside his jewelry
To focus on construction of a place
That bears his name in white, vaulted typeface.
A park named for an oratory reverend
Has got a vast memorial at its north end
Where one man standing with his sword espies
A glimmer in the bushes to his right.
The problem we all live with is surveyed
By a girl at a mirror, and a runaway
Who’s hidden himself near the garden gate
Where grizzlies, browns, and polars snore away.
Down in the Russian area of town
Two pearly silhouettes let their hair down
And, tangled in each other, wildly dance
Beside the levitating baby grand.
Within the hut, this drink made by Donn Beach
Will lift you up—that is, until you’ve reached
The strict limit of two, for any more
Will leave you moaning, scratching at the door.
The place that hosts a verdant terminus
Is named for a Brooklyn industrialist
Who, working at his bench, played out his plans
With his head, chest, and feet—but not his hands.
A towering behemoth pair, all flecked
In paint, stride down the boulevard. They checked,
Before they started, that their gold was still
Hid safe below the thin, spray-painted sill.
Within the park that, daily, manifests
A glistening orb that settles in the west,
The people on the wooden bench espy
Two drunken dogs: one black, and one bright white.
You munch your arrugadas and await
The bus to come and carry you away
From Trujillo to Lima, while the fallow
Labrantíos flash beyond the window.
The yellow wall has advertised the sale:
Fine art and sculpture shall be offered where
Necessities like cereal and eggs
Are typically what live upon the shelves.
While Will and Herman hang out in the rear
Within the yellow shadow, lofty mares
Gallop within a pink and purple circle,
Chasing each other’s silky tails, eternal.
The head is where the vine and strangler figs
Grow thick. The women close their eyes and think
Upon the severed heart that beats and throbs
Between two gardens flourishing on thought.
A telephonic history in six parts:
From smoke, to shields, to medieval ramparts
With semaphore, to rotary dials, to women
At the switch, to signals out of vision.
The French stable has got a gated patch
Where les chevaux can wander and relax.
But while they graze, the Goose is off, instead,
Sulking and feeling blue behind the shed.
You stop at the side gate and look around:
The huckles, straws, and blues along the ground
All importune to their oppressive stems
To set them free so they can join the fun.
The seven sfogliatelle upon the plate
Exhibit their wares to the shadowed street.
The Goose is tempted, but he girds himself
From being seduced by their lovely smells.
The Ghanese woman is the reigning King.
She sits along the wall, and pulls the strings,
As those who dare to make progressive trouble
Contrive of ways to break free from their bubbles.
The Goose is outside, munching on some bread
That’s slathered in a delectable spread,
While thinking to himself of all the time
He saves when he’s provided with his rhymes.
As you sit, front and center, in the place
That once was named for Tompkins, you appraise
The faceless figures moving with intense
Maneuvers all along the slitted fence.
The school that specializes in the art
Of fighting, and its local counterpart—
The boozy namesake of a tidal state—
Are separated by a steely gate.
You contemplate the soft and soothing flow—
The swells, like deep breaths, slowly sink and grow,
And whisper, gently, through the rolling gate
Into the ear of a tranquil primate.
The ugly ducklings have foregone their muffin.
They look up, enviously, at the heron
Who’s living his best, single-legged life
While sipping on a coffee set on ice.
An Irishman, the youngest out of ten,
Became a thriving Brooklyn businessman.
And now, inside the place that bears his name,
The water sprays into a leafy drain.
A neighborhood named for a Dutchman has
A hidden anchor overgrown with rust,
That flinches every time it hears the rain
Drops echoing inside a nearby drain.
Behind his sign, the Scotsman languishes
Within the thick of overgrown bushes,
Thinking on Simmon’s Bluff and Fort Sumter,
And all the Union men he treated there.
Dinkins and Dinowitz and Dryden know
That at this place, the seeds of knowledge grow
And blossom into flowers, red and white,
Fed by the bright sun in the Brooklyn sky.
The beakers buzz with saps and sucralose.
The revolutionary man stands still, engrossed,
while clutching at his puckered-up tricorn.
He wanted revolution, but now he’s torn.
Two beans. One lugged over the cobblestones
to make its not-so-gentle journey home.
One with a credo that, the pot, transcends:
a blend of Gratitude and Innocence.
Down in the basin, one strong activist–
propounding for communal interest–
beseeched the local bishops and their mates
to make moves to decide the neighborhood’s fate.
The golden neon lights the warning well:
when you are coming, you should watch your step.
But when you’re going, ease your rear out first,
or else you’ll read your warning in reverse.
You approach the spot, but since you haven’t paid
you’ve got to observe from outside the gate,
while those with bighted eyes assess the bluffs,
and smother their strategies in chalk dust.
There was a little hiccup in the plan:
The portrait of the stern, unshaven man
Made people think the little emerald shed
did not store food, but grooming stock instead.
The water spouting from the ground does flow
and feed the trees beside the patio,
while those who occupy the everyday
make angry, pointed faces at the spray.
A chill on the wind–the turquoise serpent shifts
his eyeless gaze toward where the monarch lives.
His forked tongue shivers at the keen prospect
at what’s inside that royal cabinet.
He’s on the hook for quite a hefty fine.
He didn’t see the red “no parking” sign,
and now his hardtop’s shackled up and bound
to a tow-truck, and heading to the pound.
The wealthy Briton had it in her head
to try a new sport, but every attempt
to sink a bucket failed, and she knew why:
the backboard regulations weren’t quite right…
The triplets out above—though black and white—
Are still aware the Inner Workings are bright
And rich. The discern, through dark spectacles
A Touch of Pink that lingers on the walls.
To heed the man with starry eyes. To lift
Himself from off his steely bench and give
His dreams a chance… the one-toothed fellow starts
By opening his mouth and speaking his heart.
The set of twenty-eight is on the wall,
And three of them have twisted up to curl
Round one another, showily, though they
Don’t give the passers-by the time of day.
Within the workshop, at the Viennese bench,
The Goose has pulled up a red stool to watch
A man named Thomas shining in his craft
While Robin watches, smiling, from the back
The age-old Trappers, and the Brookridge crew
Must all coordinate with the Shore View
To set their times. And when they’re off the links,
They watch from the gazebo with their drinks.
A downtown borough on the sand; the seats
Arranged into a rainbow, vast and neat,
Making the fervid scavenger contend
That there is gold hidden at either end.
A grey eye peers out from behind the leaves
To catch a glimpse at those across the street
Who revel in the music, and who slip,
While dancing, on the dry flakes underfoot.
He sits, bare-chested, in his stately pew,
Surveying the bus stops and elbow pulls.
Behind, a woman draws a frilly fan
And mutters in her native Catalan.
Atlantic Fever gripped America,
So two boarded the Lituanica
To see if they could find, up in the sky
A cure for this affliction of the mind.
If gold is what’cha want, seek out the place
That takes its name from a late Brooklyn Beast.
Follow the yellow arrow to the lip
Under the second of two concrete dips.
Five “X”s in the air, and it’s the fifth
That marks the spot. A songbird lifts
Her left eye, spying them from down the street.
Her wings bespeak my faith, her songs my peace.
The sign is faded, and it tells the tale
Of four zones that comprise the marshy trail.
And at the green bridge, those tides, daily, rise
And fall, and leave salty buildups behind.
The bounty of the hills is ample, with
A range of frozen treats for you to lick.
And of these hills, one letter bears the brunt
When it comes time to pluralize their lot.
Morello’s mural—featuring yours truly,
With gold upon my head and one unruly
Songbird on my crown, who sings her song
To scavengers who search among the rungs.
Below the window of the lobster place,
Treasure is hidden ‘neath an overhang.
And though the bridge there casts a shadow, you
Can limn your search with a gold prawn or two.
Behind the rusty “B,” you’ll find a prize
Distinct from the hunt that is advertised,
Inside a little courtyard to the north,
Within a neighborhood of an armed force.
At the end of eighty-seven, there’s a lamp
That shines upon a spot, fertile and damp
Where superstitious gardeners believe
Giving their plants this name will turn them green.
A track up in the sky. The shadowed runner
Parts the clouds that billow up from under.
One hundred steps away, a green box hides
The gold that he is desperate to find.
The courtyard of the university—
A great brick head has sprouted up to see
The bright students who occupy positions
Upon the curving benches in the distance.
Your battery is full, so play your round
Of Tetris without fear of shutting down.
The printed vinyl shapes fall from the air—
Patterns of pink, yellow, and Violet squares.
Though Doc Kazeem has got a practice that
Serves people, the sign above the bench out front
Implies that you might still be treated there
If you have antlers and thick, matted hair.
Downtown. Three stories high, you’ll find them stacked:
Toyotas, Acuras, and Cadillacs.
Invented (not by Thomas), these forms glint
Behind the wall of ivy to the left.
Among the region’s hobbies, tilting at
Windmills does not inhabit the top spot.
Instead, this sheep’s milk product is their pride,
And it’s displayed to all who pass outside.
The rounded vault that’s implied by the name
Must be symbolic, for the pouring rain
Still soaks the stone paths of this verdant space
Which hides a prize behind its battered shed.
Below the doorway of this place, the water
Rises from the ground, and if you lower
Your tin bucket, you’ll collect enough
For you to rinse your mouth before you floss.
Eleven driver’s-side doors, red and white
With stripes, and one in blue, all form a bright
And patriotic dozen on the the second floor
Of a brick building with a thin, white door.
Over the daisies growing in the grass,
You spread your picnic blanket, and unpack
The cheese and crackers. Since the day is bright
And warm, you thought it best to keep lunch lite.
Upon the hill, the vintage steel does glint
Upon the fender in chromatic tints.
A skinny mutt sleeps on the street beside,
Dreaming that someone might give him a ride.
A winding path upon the pier. It leads
You to a shaded spot where you will meet
Twelve people that you’ll recognize quite well…
Between two of them, your gold treasure dwells.
They’re smiling, as they lug the heavy ear.
And though they’re in the east, the north is where
They come from, where the shadows on the corner
Are cast by a bridge propped up on heavy girders.
A miser rubs the nylon ‘tween the skin
Of his forefinger and his thumb. The thin
Synthetic on the red seat, and the wheels
Of tin make him think he can get a deal.
Along the waterfront, a place for Rose
To watch the ferry as it comes and goes…
The message of her memory, delivered
Out to the peaceful water of the river.
Two ocean denizens circle and swim
Outside a locked, exclusive gate. While Yin
Searches the blue, misguided Yang drifts further
From the gold that’s hid by green and silver.
Although Lee, above, is both brave and strong,
Below him, crazy minds tend to break young,
As they smash the discordant tiles that bound
A doorway leading to failures profound.
She picks her daisies, and lies on the wall.
Bare shoulders. Patterned socks… Though warped sills gnarl
The windows of her house, don’t be deceived;
Visitors there are always well-received.
Upon the bench, your vision is impeded.
The vines grow heavy there—the tannic seed and
Stem do have the tendency to droop
Them down, obstructing an amazing view.
The three white notices promote the Best Of
Brownsville, which does stand out from the rest of
Brooklyn as a place where people rise
Together, under two old, wrinkled eyes.
A gem below the bridge: Two homages
To Brooklyn. On one side, our heritage
Blared loud in trumpet blasts, with purple chains
Across, where bricks descend unto a name…
An order made by Sherman to ensure
That those who had been shackled might endure
Upon themselves to prosper in their work,
And find new fortune under fertile earth.
A yellow snake lies hidden. Near, and to
His left, the bottom gate conceals from view
The thing he covets. Soon, he’ll zig and zag
Out of the flowers in a swift attack.
The view: a governor out to the left,
Manhattan to the right. Behind the ledge
On which you sit, the shrubbery grows thick,
Concealing well the treasures that you seek.
A wasted strip of shore was made anew
When one Quebecker, opting to eschew
Fetid complaints, built a fine pathway there,
And hid some gold under its two-tiered stair.
My uncle owns a deli, but he dreamed
Of hitting home runs ‘neath the green
And yellow stadium lights. These days, he might
Be found play-calling, capped in blue delight.
The wall is green, and so’s the gate that climbs
To thrust its heavy mid-post into time.
It harkens to a year when Boody was
Chartered to be the head of Brooklyn’s cause.
The sesame requested to be toasted,
To help him gain resemblance to his closest
Friend: the poppy. They bond over their tea,
Out near where hedges grow on the side street.
Miraculous parsley. Subtle, with a zest
That saves the over-garlicked, over-dressed,
And over-spiced; that makes the oily flesh
Of the most pungent mackerel taste fresh.
Suspendered, with a torn and tattered hat,
And bearded to his belt, this dusty chap
At first seems quite lost, but the keen beholder
Sees where he points, and what is on his shoulder.
Some orange bars within the blue. Inside,
The baker, daily, gathers fresh supplies
To make a puffy dough that’s filled with spread,
The Tex-Czech version of a classic bread.
Below the bridge, the shade is double. Blue
And yellow, also, shroud the kind man who
Has welcomed you to Brooklyn with a dog.
And now, seek out a Clif to find your gold.
The ancient people started, some two years
Before the end was set to come, to peer
Around the neighborhood to see if they
Could find some modern cures to keep them safe.
A bird sings of her journey—in the dark
She scaled the stony crags of Fach and Fawr.
Her song tells of the vale from whence she’s flown,
Where golden arches curve from underground.
Within you, there’s the courage to rise up
And stonewall against crimes that interrupt
Your scrupulous intentions to erect
A bridge to span the waters of respect.
The city’s big, and it’s home to all types,
From those below the street, to those sky high,
To those who wear their saddles in the sea,
And flash their bucktoothed grins for all to see.
Upon the wall, a wide and emerald eye—
Electrified with voltage from the sky—
And bird ablaze above a rosy shell.
Behind, a green hole hides your treasure well.
A square of squares. The pixelated colors
Shine across the street to where another
Curiousity awaits: Two heads,
Connected by a hollow metal neck…
A penguin waves his fan out by the pool.
He’s on the clock, but still wants to look cool,
So he conceals his languorous gaze
Behind a pair of dainty, yellow shades.
Along the coastline, where the rocks are piled
Particularly high, a sea of smiles,
For at this Beach, marine life splash and paddle
With rubber ducks and fragrant, soapy bubbles.
The middle slat of wood does separate
The garments made of heavy cloth from delicate
Chiffon and silken gowns, inside the armoire
That conceals your mother’s hidden treasures.
The people passing by the market crowd
Around the giant cabbage that is out
There in the window. The locals are all awed
By the green thumbs of Abe and Mary Todd.
A donut in his mouth, and orange pajamas—
He’s ready to relax, until his mama
Reminds him that this morning she had asked
Him nicely to take out the kitchen trash.
What strange contest is played on this dirt plot
Within the garden? Two firemen know not,
And so they’ve parked two trucks outside the place
To keep an eye upon things, just in case.
Beyond the flying beagle with a scarf,
A metal structure sprouts out of the Earth
To welcome him to the location where
Political discussion is popular.
Upon DeKalb, a shadowed planter that
The whole community can use to plant
Their flowers, but despite the name upon the wall,
There are no Galas or Granny Smiths at all.
A woman of St. Augustine, whose steps descend
Into the ground. Upon the wall, two dance
Within the sea of red—quite close, and slow—
While gold lies heavy ‘neath their tapping toes.
The people in the city Heights have trust
That the man and woman leaning on the crest
Must be aware that they’ve seen the four beasts
That look upon them, licking furry lips.
A yoga pose, with one leg lifted high,
While two shy people kiss, concealed behind
A purple bloom. Near them, a monarch flies
Away from where a shaded snapper hides.
The Sheepshead waters have ten, but the fourth
Is where the salty Sea Bass and Sea Wolf
Meet Porgy. As he sails off in his ship,
They wave to him from on the jutting tip.
The arias within this yellow hall
Are sung, despite complaints from Peter and Paul
That students in the school can’t concentrate
With music seeping through the metal gates.
As weeks went by, the women ‘neath the cold
Stone sun propped themselves up—the cornerstones
Of activism and development.
Their early roots, for us, cracked thick pavement.
A square for Albee, where the squares are high
Up in the window, and they occupy
A perch to shine upon the city street
Where trees and bushes grow from the concrete.
Between the income and community
Upon a famous board, a purple street.
And on the bricks, inside a crimson ring,
A wight on wheels becomes a blurry thing.
A derby and two stakes—a trophy won
By thirteen thoroughbreds who could outrun
The rest. The best of them, with golden locks
That bounce and shimmer as she boldly trots.
Some six bananas hang over the flat
Terrain of Petite Clef, Fort Duvernette,
And Terre-de-Haut. Do as the locals do,
And don’t pick ‘till the tips are yellow too.
These sweet eleven acres have been refined
Into a verdant place where you will find
A turquoise ramp that lifts into a view
That includes not the gold that’s under shoe.
The gold is heavy, but the density
Is relative. It’s true for jewelry
And other objects too: it’s not the sheen
That matters, but what’s hidden underneath.
The massive band of marching soldiers steps
Along the street. The air in the southwest
Is dim and dusty, and the callers scan,
With squinted eyes, for signs to Cuilapan.
Despite a dire affliction of the nerves,
This champion of courage could be observed
Out tending to the flowers. His toils enabled
Those like him to claim seats at the table.
A tale of two trees: one struggles to find
Sustenance in the concrete, while behind
An academic fence, the other bears
Fat fruit which dangle heavy in the air.
The capital within the middle sports
A grave upon its cap. At the blue door,
The patrons second-guess their sanity,
As diamonds underfoot divulge inanity.
The crab’s outgrown his shell. Naked, he leaves
His inky den and sets off down the street
To find a new one in the local bay,
Passing a small white garden on the way…
Below the white clouds in the pink sky: One
Side with split faces, a greedy eye, and palms
That meet. The other, filled with eyes that took
Their leave from the glare in the viny nook.
A coastal mountain range in Israel
Has lent one to a Brooklyn triangle.
Across, beside a local watering hole,
A tree veils treasure in a hidden knoll.
A yellow frame. Inside, a famous blonde
Has blown a neon bubble. If she thought
This would impress the visitors, then she
Was unaware that they have known eternity.
Beneath the hanging honeycombs that light
The craning nooks and crannies of the flights
Of stairs: a picnic table, set for those
Who need a break from hunting for their gold.
A change is in the air. The clouds, unhappy
With the state of things, rain fat and sappy
drops—purple, maroon, and red. Behold
Three irises, and follow them to gold.
There, rising up above the local farm
Stand is a building where the lights are on
In seven windows. They shine, and give good
Reflections to gold in the orange wood.
Eight genies in eight lamps above; a strange
Pagan addition to a saintly place
Of study, but they’re helpful just the same.
They’ve told you of the gold behind low panes…
A strange flex: glasses, gears, and pulling tongues
In black and white. The craning arms among
Them point, but none unto the corner that
Curves left off to a bin within a fence.
In Brooklyn summers, you might come upon
A tree that seems like three, but is just one
Trunk twisting round itself, while refulgence
Arises from below the nearest fence.
Blue bodies on the wall—faded, on wheels
That take them round the pier. Concealed
Behind a wall near centre-ice, some gold
Is nestled in a spot out of the cold.
A trail within the marsh. Tall grasses grow
On either side. And if you choose to go,
Make it a day trip, for it may take hours
To find two benches nestled in those acres.
The checker chickers outside. Generals
In rubber underscore its colorful
Design. But as it waits out front with pride,
The Goose sneaks out the entrance at the side.
Twelve bubbles, light and incandescent, rise.
They’re nervous at the prospect that there might
Be an arrival of a hostile boat.
And so, up underneath, one hides their gold.
The beast endures the sandy gusts. He thinks
On thin umbrellas languishing in drinks
Of rum, and solace in a marble stoop
That waits for him beyond this lonely hump.
Blithe spirit, chirping gay and joyfully
To tell the holy man across the street
That there are are no snakes, either, living in
The hedges where he keeps his gold hidden.
Though Betty Smith knows of this famous plant,
She might be unfamiliar with the one that sprouts
Stilettos, brogues, and sandals from the branches
That fade above a hollow wooden vantage.
Within the rages of the storm that brings
Blazes of fire and swirls of red scorching
Whirlwinds, the skinny puck still seeks its goal
By surfing gusts that surge from narrow holes.
The unkempt field, named for a shivering
Society, is where some ghosts still swing
And pitch while, in the overgrown bleachers, you
Sit front and center, thinking on this clue.
A place that’s to the right side of a peak
That’s to the right side of a salty sea
Is where a woman with fat fingers shares
A cigarette with one who can’t inhale.
In Brooklyn, there’s a little hidden beach
Where, on the weekend, piglets splash and screech
Out in the waves, while dad sits at the corner
Of the deck, adjusting the gas burner.
Pale Ales, and lagers too. The bottles—stacked
In heaps upon the concrete floor, all cracked
And oil-stained—gain contrast from the wall
Across, a faded patchwork of pastels.
Two owls on an unlucky Avenue
Look west from their lofty green and yellow
Position: across, a golden morsel hides
Close to the bricks in a hutch to the side.
The Italian version of the name gives life
To meaning—Letters, on the awning, strive
To tell that, like them, all creation’s tied
Together, like the reeds where treasure hides.
The Lavender and Lemon Balm, the Thyme
And Chamomile draw redolence sublime
Unto her warty nose. Those perfumes, trapped
By her black magic in infernal wax.
The first in New York history: It marks
The land on which a German patriarch
Decided to erect a house, and fence
Which, at one spot, is ivy overwhelmed.
Above the fruit that bears your promised gold,
Two silver towers gleam, like carnival
Amusements, while the folks in three red homes
Watch out from underneath their three white roofs.
Two dripping pepperoni wedges point
Up to the green tag of the azure orb.
The eighth of eight, and pretty far from us,
So getting there might take more than the bus.
A metal entrance with thick windows, that
Pisano might have loved. But architects
Who worked and built in his old century
Would never hide gold underneath a tree.
The little dutch boy brought his can of paint
On clogs, up to a vantage with some height,
So he could paint, in blue, a lofty clue
That might help searchers come upon their loot.
It would have been some justice, in this park,
If, while the cat was staring into dark,
The rat three stories down was able to
Make his ascent up the tower of blue.
Within the garden, there’s a special club
That represents another neighborhood.
The flat man, in his sailor’s cap, points you
To where your gold is hidden under blue.
Don’t fret, for all of life is beautiful—
A fact that those who skate in this park know
Too well. Upon the wall, forever, sits their friend,
While gold sprouts from a piny tree behind.
Two holy men stand stony, solemn guard,
And watch the street where paradise was lost
When an early pair approached a blooming tree
And plucked a single Pear of Callery.
The Great Confessor, behind the chain links,
Looks on the fresh cut lawn, and sadly thinks
That grass in Alexandria could thrive
If there was water to keep it alive.
Thomas, the council member, sees the frog
With blue and orange chest reach up and touch
The Earth, while one with green eyes contemplates
A tree with roots that push upon the gate.
The towering cranes use vertical strength
To snatch the ocean fruit from buttery banks.
Upon this pier, they convene, tall and proud—
The only spot where fishing is allowed.
Absurd, it is: within the shadows you
Can find the most expansive ocean view.
Just as absurd, the chef who lives next door
Makes sushi, but appears to be of Éire.
Surely you’ve seen them, standing in the park:
The orange sumacs, and their horns of Stag.
They’re wild, except for one inside a box
Along the fountain ring where walkers walk.
A tiny neighborhood with cobblestones
Does hide an oxymoron in its rows,
And those who stop to eat there stand out front
And search the menu to find what they want.
A drooping underpass that leads to Queens
Is propped up on its heavy metal beams,
And invites them to enter: those who dwell
Inside the space between heaven and hell.
Behind the umber gate, the garden—lush
And bountiful—is where the young one rushed
Off from his wooden horse and carriage to
The lawn, to buy some ice cream layered with fruit.
Upon an avenue named for a fly lord
Or a runaway, most passers ignore
The Matsumoto woman’s stare, but those
Who seek her gold will stop and linger low.
The skeleton within the mesa’s shadow
Does try to flee his dark and dusty circle
By trudging west between the bush and cactus—
But east is where the leaves and petals flourish…
This famous baptizer has got a place
Where he can look down on the passing trains
And daydream of the crown that he would wear
If his neck propped up more than empty air.
Two copper snakes hidden in Greenpont. Heed
The blind one’s gaze and follow down the street,
Some blocks away, to where a third snake hangs
In hollow languor ‘neath a chalky sign.
The images are strange: a hand that strokes
A petaled sun, and one that hovers low
Beneath an astral eye. Somewhere behind,
Your gold hides at the end of the fake pine.
The park is made for easy strolling, but
Impatient ones might find, on their shortcut
From top to bottom, in a Well-hidden crack,
A glint between the heavy cubic stacks.
The felines lounging in the Heights possess
No shortage of oohing and aahing guests,
But one who looks deep in their eyes just might
Spot a twinkling reflection to the right.
At the Encebollado, birds glide low
Over the water where the trees lean close.
So calm, the scenery, that no-one thinks
To answer the phone when they hear it ring.
One dozen and one third towering trees
Bearing their sweet Greek figs and mulberries
Ponder the barren pane across the street
That sits beside a trio made of threes.
A virtuoso of the the buzz and clip,
He works inside, while customers who sit
Outside upon the metal bench grow restive
Due to the constant hum of red possessive.
Off past the bookstore, it’s another block
Before the Clermont finds an open dock.
You disembark, to search the home of Rhodes
To find a place that will tend to your toes.
The park where faithful Jarheads congregate
Is also home to a suspended gate
That will live up to its name, if you check
The narrow crack in the wall to the left.
Down at the beach where falcons fly, the stairs
Descend into a gated section where
One can purvey the happenings in the field
Between containers and their gold concealed.
Two seabirds spread their wings, and guard the huge
Steel gate that barricades the avenue.
To right find bushes, and to left find bikes,
But underneath hides what you’ve come to find.
For Stuyvesant’s companion, slightly north
Is where steel rabbits, squirrels, and gophers
Watch pawns attack each other underneath
The gaze of one night-stalking enemy.
Two Belarusian heroes search the street,
They rose up in a former century
Much like the soil below that rises up
Against the gold hidden below a cusp.
Two pools in the pacific, but they don’t
Resemble anything that nature knows.
Rectangular, the rocks, and smooth, the weir
That separates them into two true tiers.
The hound steers, while she sips her steaming brew.
She knows that even if he’s able to
Swerve fast enough to miss the brick-made beam,
They won’t get past the gate across the street.
The green and prickly fellow with one eye
Waves out across the street to where design
And manufactory combine to make
A place that elevates the steps you take.
Though Ben is tall, in this historic site
Belonging to the Gaels, he’s still not quite
Able to reach the middle light that glows
For lovers who all strive to break below.
The thirteen letters explode from one pink
Beginning. Watchers from the bench do think
They’ve established its magical origin
But the Goose knows it’s just imagination…
The experts work within spirals of suds
‘Neath fourteen bubbles hovering above.
Their expertise is envied by the gold
That hides in one dank crevice in the road.
The place listed before “Color TV”
At this rough spot that traded “N” for “V”
Is where you’ll want to reach your hand up high
Over one corner to the northern side.
A common misconception: engineers
Contrived the cuneate structure in the air
Without a plan, and without proper steps
Spelled out (with little pictures) by a map.
Landscapes. Full of resplendent boats that sail
The waters. Hill and Casilear and Cole
Contained some subtle strokes of golden gleam
Below a top coat of bright white and green.
The bell chimes, once for each day of the week,
To warn the passers that, pavement, they’ll eat
If they don’t see the water, and they slip
Below the faucet that drips metal drips.
The Goose drank beer, and now he has the spins—
A spiral of faces, balls, and instruments,
And one dog who looks past you to the north
To get a better view of a fertile fourth.
Within the center, the lone hunting bear
Belonging to the north finds he’s impaired
By all the green. But he’s still keen to try,
While pillars in the distance ask him why…
The peeling Kanagawa wave hooks right
under the gaze of block-partitioned eyes.
It crashes, constantly, upon the docks
Where it erodes a pair of concrete blocks.
Out of the brown earth sprout the circles, bold
And orange on the ground. And it is told
That underneath the fifty-two cement
Arches, gold hides for you below a bench.
The ramp up to the modular commode
Ensures that no bad weather will erode
Its standing. In between, within a jamb,
Some gold waits patient for a lucky man.
The entrance is on Smith, but you can find
A white gate that gives views unto the Rhine
Through wild trees and thickets, if you go
Around the corner and keep your eyes low.
Under the ledge where one high tower soars,
Gold waits in loamy compress. It is stored
For one who recognizes metal spirals
As essential to willowy revival.
The wheat arises, elevated by
Its futile engineering. Way up high,
Within his nest, the crow looks, glumly, down
At where his doorway rusts into the ground.
They’re seven colors in the sky— but if
You organize your search for Mr. Biv
You’ll wind up lost. Just one of his initials
Is in this septet— Four times, cut by neutral.
You may rely on it. Signs point to yes:
The view is worth the drive, that is unless
Your picture is impeded by the wall
That keeps your future treasure in a ball.
As everybody’s heard, diners can find
Some tacos and some hotcakes out inside
The patio where James and Carly stand
Upon the riser of the wooden ramp.
The moon sits at her feet. Below her crown
Her face set in monochromatic frown
As she looks off into the shadows where
The gold she’s lost sits above empty air.
A pigeon of the world, caught up in chains
Has hollered to the back to all his friends
Inside the shop, to tell them what he found
Below the bikes arranged along the ground.
A legal first—a lighter of the lights.
A Blackstone commentator several times.
A pair of windows, opposite on the street.
One relative, and one of heavy sheet.
The center of a movement where, preserved,
The artifacts of places that once served
Communities. You pass the hunter flies
And search the bushes down along the side.
An olive tree within a shining letter
A place of flavor, with a brimming cellar
Full of spices: Saffron, fenugreek,
Aleppo pepper, cumin, anise seed…
A bird upon a nature-loving sign
Sits high above the swelling Peppervine,
And watches those who search along his trails
To find the thing that he already owns.
The macron and macaw there on the corner
Engage themselves in avian disorder
Within the the airy space above, while down
Below, their tree grows in the golden ground.
The isle’s where this ocean predator
Achieves his goal upon the second floor.
Where he is headed is where he defends
what hides where plastic greenery ascends.
You plank upon the wooden planks. Outside,
The passers on the beach observe you climb
The ropes and lift your chin above the bar,
Where you can see an inside full of cars.
A gate, white at the top and bronze below—
A street that Gerret traveled long ago,
Is now home to a fourteen-paneled swath
That goes from U.S.A. to Panama.
A naming controversy near the bridge.
And on the corner, a place where the fish
And lily pads live happy in a tub,
Ignorant of the spilling of first blood.
This street for Amsterdam perennials
Will not appear on any map, but still
We’ve got to keep it clean, so kindly store
Your trash within the covered enclosure.
Moses reserved this sprawling thirty-six
For Patrick Henry, where the local kids
Can splash, and where the local geese can perch
Upon the floodlight in between the courts.
Within this sleepy neighborhood, between
The three and four, in twisty knots you’ll be
Inspired in the space where workers dwell
Beyond a button that is not a bell.
The street named for a colonial John
Is where some abolitionists had come
To build their railroad down below. But now
Its pathways hover high above the ground…
They say you can’t teach an old goose new tricks,
But his web-footed cousin’s pretty quick—
You’ve got to use your noodle if you want
To know when the bus goes and when it stops.
Across the street, the Bushwick fresco paints
A picture of a faithful man who came
From Carolina to bring hope and love,
And who now runs his watch from up above.
Abundant and ambitious, the bronze doors
That face the busy parkway juxtapose
The rusty gate that molders to the west
Of where the eastern denizens invest.
The vivid cornice high above exclaims
That in this place, you should not fear the flames
That rage beyond the sill and jamb and head,
Turning the steps and metal railings red.
A place for the Knute Rockne founder, with
A field for coaching. Feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground,
A title tells where treasure can be found.
The city where the stallions fly has got
A spot in Brooklyn where the walls are hot,
And as you lick your lips, flames lick the roof,
While vents along the ground lift cool air through.
The gondola upon the white bricks came
From one street over, where one head of state
sought respite from his duties underneath
A pin oak sprouting from the hard concrete.