Spaceman's Pancakes

Subscribing to the Cosmic Snowball Theory: A few million years from now the sun will burn out and lose its gravitational pull. The earth will turn into a giant snowball and be hurled through space. When that happens it won't matter if I write this blog


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Poem of the Day #23- 9/19/17


I don’t trust Vodka
It’s basically hairspray and I’ve had too many bad hair days
Gin I like though
On summer days
With lime and tonic
Something to steel me for the long boat to Mumbia and
Where there might be Tigers

I like white wine,
It doesn’t expect much of me
And I don’t expect much of it:
We have this special bond of modest expectations
With Red Wine, it’s not so easy.
She makes demands
She will not submit
She will aspire and she will fail
Or else inspire and seduce and leave me too disarmed
We burn up to the end and start again and
Isn’t that almost what love is?

Whisk(e)y I also love,
And why not?
It is, after all, the water of life and
We should all drink of that draught.
It saved Tim Finnegan too, you might recall,
And, for me, I expect it will do the same someday.
Mostly though it’s been nothing but trouble, but
Life can be that way.


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Poem of the Day #21- 9/8/17


Morning in Times Square
In the Canyon of Midtown
Harsh light glares from the East
Grey streets blow out
To blinding white
Tourists squint at the Marquees
And Flagship store.
Locals hide in sunglasses
Or bury their heads
Against the sun,
Walking fast to escape the morning crowd.
I am alone with my camera,
Searching for something else-
Not a landmark or tourist trap,
No blue-glass cage-
Searching for all that brings them out
Into this harsh morning light.


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Poem of the Day #19- 8/01/17


Outside a Bank of America branch,
A small plaque catches my eye
Here once was the Filmore East it proclaims

Walking through city streets
These memento mori abound
Telling tales of places now gone
And where people once danced and got high
Here they raged against the dying of the light
And there they wrote and there they drank and here they died.

And for this a plaque.

Here stood CBGB’s
This was once the Bell Labs, where once people watched quarks dance
Home of Janis and Dylan and Cohen
At this bar, George Washington drank the Brits under the table

After I’ve walked through half of Manhattan
And I’m worn down by these ghosts
I wonder what the plaques will say tomorrow
Will they boast of apps created,
Deposits made

A rage begins to grow in me
I want to find the last seedy street
In Alphabet City
Score a dime of shitty street weed
-No Botanists-choice-Cannibus-Cup-artisinal-kind-
a bag half dirt and seed

I’ll storm bank branches and mobile phones shops
I’ll fire a joint and dance

Dance to Jerry’s Guitar
Dance as Jimi wails
Dance to Janis’s blues
Dance to Yardbird’s sax

Just so one day
A plaque might read
This is where he danced until they dragged him away