Author: davestankowicz

Dave Stankowicz is a retired educator who lives on an island off the coast of Portland, Maine with his wife Debbie Jordan and their dog Cody. Liberated from the responsibilities of teaching he has found the space and time to pursue so much that interests him. Dave is the former host of the WMPG radio show Palm Wine Radio, and currently hosts Next To Silence - an hour long show that explores different themes, genres, artists and record labels. Next to Silence can be streamed live on Peaks Island Radio at https://peaksislandradio.com on Mondays and Fridays @ 7:00 PM EDT, and Tuesdays @noon. You can also stream archived shows at his site (category: next to silence) He continues his lifelong efforts to master space and time.

GRRRRRRRRRR!!


 That low register monotone growl,
 emanating from his gut,
 menacing oscillations of grinding gears
 command you to move the fuck back.
 
 Stay still,
 give him space enough 
 to assess your spirit.
 
 It’s always personal with them.
 
 That eloquence of duty,
 heightened senses in overdrive,
 the visceral gauge of your essence,
 smelling past fear for any bad intent;  
 wet nose story construction, 
 merely the first stage of judgment.
 
 Then the stare; not into your eyes
 but through your flesh and marrow
 to a hidden nature
 you might not even know,
 painful mutilation leading to annihilation.
 
 Lastly the ears perked and directed,
 scanning for any suggestive sound
 of weakness or threat.
 
 Best stay calm and still.
 
 With a favorable verdict 
 you can relax
 and enjoy membership
 in his pack.
 
 But then again, he does look malicious,
 and just may be wired 
 to toy with you a bit
 before he takes a bite
 out of your leg.
 
 You’ll find out soon enough.

So These Things


 So these things
 washed up or
 put away -
 patterns of solace
 within the lesser seasons.
 
 Dreams ascend the cold bones,
 rising with the virtue
 through ethereal channels,
 
 while physicality is
 avoided
 or denied.
 
 Repair
 of the broken
 is a charity
 unto itself.

Address Unknown

 Bag of festering grief,
 trapped in the never-ending night.
 
 Ceaseless concussions
 of suffocating loneliness,
 nose dive collision
 through terror and dread,
 tumbling into pits 
 of perpetual loss.
 
 Bare wire deprivation,
 stripped of insulation,
 discarded and raw, 
 The Nothing Draw - 
    no connection,
    no sleep,
    no dignity,
    no pleasure,
    no hope.
 
 Abandoned and forgotten,
 insatiable black hole remains,
 the catastrophic gyre of misfortune and terror,.
 
 Then:
 Nothing
 Nothing
 Nothing.
 
 Address unknown,
 state of damnation;
 not quite dead,
 just live enough
 
 to endure each day
 with a broken heart.

Nightmare Alley

 
 
 Nightmare Alley -
 desperate young lovers on the lam,
 a wounded veteran who has forgotten his name,
 an array of theoretical perspectives,
 ostensible acts of violence.
 
 Nocturne -
 kids with dreams, a little fractured,
 a man’s wife with nothing but larceny in her heart,
 half-hearted romance where
    “I” passes insensibly into “we,”
    “my” becomes “our,”
 and individual fate escapes commitment.
 

 Desire for - 
    mirror images,
    forlorn gazes
    dream girls with flash hawk faces
      the very sight gives new hope.
 
 Poverty Row, where
 everybody has an angle,
 social murder is legitimized by war;
 breakdown of suppressed agitation,
 codified amusement,
 and non-identity.
 
 Modernist Mortal Music - 
 all heavy swing rhythm and
 a loping low-key theme,
 pondering a watershed of dissonance; 
 The Zeitgeist Theory - 
    downbeat and overrated.
 
 Cutting Edge that unifies the technology
 of making a fast buck, with:
    psychopathic all-consuming conflagration,
    retrograde ideas,
    equally ominous
    mercenary humiliations.
 
 Having a big argument with myself,
 and losing.

6:15 PM Union Square


 6:15 PM 
 Union Square
 a black-hooded guy,
 exuding youthful  sincerity,
 approached a kinda pretty girl
 sitting next to me;
 aquiline nose, runway thin,
 wearing black leather boots
 with gold studs in circular patterns.
 
 with sweet-faced
 I'm-not-a-con man subtext,
 he talked of being an artist
 interested in drawing people's
 faces;
 
 may I draw your pretty face?
 
 yes, of course, she said.
 
 with a black marker he began to
 work, never taking his eyes off her,
 asking her personal questions of small
 consequence, the attention 
 being all.
 
 where are you from? 
 any brothers and sisters?
 where do you work?
 
 while sketching her eyes, hair, lips, nose.
 
 outline finished he sat down on the bench
 and filled in details,
 first with a yellow highlighter,
 then a red marker.
 
 the questions continued,
 bourbon smooth.
 she seemed intoxicated.
 
 the drawing wasn't very good,
 didn’t matter,
 his moves were.
 
 on the back of the portrait he wrote:
 Kara & Mookie 4/21/14
 Which he outlined with a red heart.
 
 she took the drawing, thanked him,
 folded it, put in her
 pocketbook, then got up.
 
 without any negotiation,
 she left with him,
 not arm-in-arm,
 but nudging him
 with her shoulder.
 
 the smoothest pickup
 I've ever witnessed.
 
 it seemed too easy,
 
 and I couldn't help
 but think that within
 the next hour
 someone's heart was
 going to get broken.