The Notorious MLG

Melrose Larry Green on Hollywood Boulevard

Old Photographs and Wild Dreams – Page 177


Year after year he smiles and sells

orange vest and winter shorts

Greenblatt kid from Brooklyn ….Melrose Avenue

sandwich board life

Talent out the ass from piano to singing – comic


Howard Stern’s WACKPACK spitfire mouthpiece …pot stirrer

Bobo & Mary Ann

No stranger to conflict…village town crier…MBA Cornell

Celebrity accountant

In spite of all the bluster, the sandpaper beliefs – heart of pure gold

gifted entertainer

Larry inspires me when I see that smile – that GRIN

This new book is for sale and only available in hard back. To get your copy click below:

Riding the Katy

The first time was special, remembering the cold

funeral in Dallas, for someone not so old

Fresh from the round house, engines did race

Denison station, big scary place

Mounting wrought iron steps to find the right seat

train car so full strange rendezvous meet

Shiny steel sculpted with curtains and wood

ladies in hosiery swishing a lilac good

Hearts beat as one when the whistle blew loud

feeling the movement riding a steel cloud

Sherman came fast fields of black dirt

gentlemen in their newspapers starchy white shirts

Gathering speed across empty winter grounds

foxes dance in the sunlight scatter at the sound

So elegant a world on heavy round wheels

windows in the dinning car table cloth meals

McKinney came next and then Dallas station

husbands and wives foreign relations

Riding the Katy a distant recall

dead rusty cars behind a rotting wall

A sweet dream of Texas gone for the time

only in dreams can you ride the Katy line

Page nine – Old Photographs and Wild Dreams

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New Photographs and Wild Dreams


Thirty two counties and thirty two friends

Irish legends everyone of them

A pot of pure gold and an Irish grin

Step forth and enjoy the fun and sin

The walls tell the stories, ghosts whispering true

Guinness in the pint glass and Jameson not a few

Patrick is the Lord, lift up his banner

Associate with his angels and their heavenly manner

A well worn stage where music is born and played so well

Songs of a green homeland, a shepherd rings his bell

The bar is a friend to all who garnish a stool

To doubt or not believe this, why only a fool

St Patrick’s Day and Christmas, the ground swells and shakes

Funerals and birthdays, the love they do make

A star in the Almighty’s sky, the devil would agree

A long, long way from Claire, but its citizens you can see

-John K Bucher Sr,

from Old Photographs and Wild Dreams

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Old Guitars and Beer Joints


traveling minstrels poor and underfed work the six strings on a old wooden stage

rickety piano and microphone with frazzled chords bends the notes of long lost rage

Gibson and Fender unpack their memories to supply the dance hall dreams

throat singers strain at notes that float magical stories from bottles of Jim Beam

finger pickers mimic Reverend Gary Davis and his trunks of blues and gin soaked tunes

sometimes on the weekends they play the harder stuff even in the afternoon

swaying on the sawdust to an old country song and under soft blue lights

makes life worth the living after a day in the oil fields getting tired

the beer and the whiskey, the songs and the tunes, always cheer you up

and  heals the soul and sometimes inspires some one who has given up

but other times a jealous soul sees something that causes a big blowup

fighting and cussing is part of the deal and the band knows just to duck

but the clapping and cheers make sure that down that old road there’s good luck

after it’s all over and time to go home the feeling is so good and whiskey’s done its job

knowing tomorrow’s a working day but down deep now there’s a new heart throb

When the spring winds of Diego


when the spring winds of Diego come and leave magic in the air

and the wine of long ago whispers of deep and sorrowful tunes of an

old fiddler who played  until he lost his way and heart in a forgotten war that books

no longer mention and then slip away silently

when the spring winds of Diego ride hard and bend the trees and

rattle glass until almost break reminding all of what could be and that

which never can return and be played on green ball fields or danced

in sad saloons any more

when the summer winds of Perez visit the hot alleys and make the

flies leave cafe tables but roast everything until it becomes a reddish

glow and curses are shouted and beer is never cold enough

and swimmers go far off shore and cobblers close early

when the fall winds of Fernando harvest more sand than wheat

warning of the hellish winters around the corner BUT on some mornings

those fall winds bring love along with the scurrying leaves and for years

old heads recall that moment when it arrived

but the spring winds of Diego always brush away the cold and forge

new promises to bind and new frontiers to walk

the end

Cold Eighteen

Feeling distracted while attempting to read “Lennon Remembers” at a coffee shop not too far from Joan Didion’s old home on Franklin, my eye catches the culprit of my irritation. A balding homeless man on the busy sidewalk is playing air guitar to a handful of frightened Asian tourists. My mental gears strain to return to the pages by another gulp of coffee while making a invisible point of being thankful a government shut down doesn’t affect our collective ability to buy and consume coffee. Lennon says in 1970 he doesn’t believe in Beatles, Dylan, or most anything else that day. I differ with this deceased bearded Beatle. I do believe in Beatles and Dylan as a concept or as anything tangible or intangible. I wonder why he was fine with the Rolling Stone interview but was livid when Wenner published it into a Straight Arrow book in order to make a buck?

It seems half of everyone I encounter has a cold. Permanently. This is southern California not Minnesota or Michigan or Saskatchewan. Why do we even get colds? Palm trees and ocean water should be our immunity. Somehow I blame this on the decline of LA Weekly after they were captured by Tea Party dough and Henry Rollins quit. Upon leaving the coffee shop a hip young woman gives the homeless gent an apple explaining it is a “Trader Joes apple”. Well, here is a new poem I offer to help get you through this government shut down and the unAmerican cold epidemic.


logo (1)“Define a beatnik and what does he want?” screamed a angry banker while gobbling a pie

“Why ask me?” the long haired vagabond wondered as he brushed food off the man’s tie

the banker just grunted and farted as he glared for an answer so the vagabond smiled

” a beatnik is a search, a journey, a mission to launch” in a tone sounding from a child

“but looking for what? for who? why?” demanded the pie eating suit wearing gnome

“it’s easier to tell you what he is not. Beatniks are not fast talkers, fast walkers to home-

they don’t chase money and fame. Beatniks search for that something hard to explain

but you know when you find it and want to measure it out but only against the grain.

bohemian soul magic is that freedom to be free, the grassy path, hearing it sing”

“Bohemian soul magic? Must be a farce. Never heard of such a foolish thing.”

The beatnik laughed and chuckled and decided to get back on that old road

the banker grabbed him in a fury and began to unload

“I hate simpletons like you who go around in smug drunken haze,

thinking they know it all finding out this crap is just a phase.”

but the vagabond waxed eloquent and responded in kind

“Kerouac! Burroughs! Ginsberg! and others tell you and the rest who are so blind,

life is not life without magic and the best type is of the Bohemian soul.

You have sold yours to the gods of mammon bringing life into a dark hole”

by now a crowd gathered to see if they would get further embroiled

“I shake my fist at you who want war and more blood on the soil”

the vagabond now rested but the banker seemed asleep, dumfounded

a stranger nudged the banker until his eyes opened brown

asking “How do I get this magic or do they even have it in this town?”

the vagabond whispered to the banker who went promptly to sleep

five minutes later he awoke, disrobed and began to leap

he cried out from his soul and frightened all who were there

shouting “Gary Snyder! Keith Richards! Charles Bukowski! and many more”

as the vagabond faded away he could still hear “Ferlinghetti! Neal Cassady! City Lights Book store!”


I know that the shutdown is over but it was in full bloom when I started this post. But, I bet we get another one soon.

See you next Friday for some new stuff!