Large crumbs fall from my plate all day long:a trip downtown to bring her the potassium she forgot to take with breakfast,four hours at my mother-in-law's, typing a letter,a traffic jam on Central Park Westbut when, at the end of my day, together we walk through the front door,I find that what is left on my plate is yet sweet substance,undiminished.
City squirrels, like city people are rarely fazed by the unusual; he races amidst the parkgoers' feet, some oaken treasure in his sight, and only the dogs at the ends of leashes aren't cool.
A pigeon curls his toes over the edge of a concrete curb before lift off, and his wings sound more like excited claps, than flaps, while on benches sit the old, the jobless, the students and the lost, a repeating patchwork pattern, and the sidewalks, once cracked with roots and many seasons' abuse are smooth now-- history evicted.
New shirt: Indian gauze--> sense memory:Summers in Florida,smell of Solarcaine on sun burnt skin, & mangos- a new fruit, make for sticky fingers & chin
Each fan has its own sound: a whir, and/or subtle pulse as its blades rotate against the air; the fan in our bedroom in the city is high pitched but the sound is still and constant.
The fan in our room in the country house, a huge wooden thing that wobbles threateningly above our bed makes almost no sound at all, but those ceramic knobs that hang at the ends of swirling brass ball chains clack together in its breeze.
The ceiling fan in the room where I grew up, is-- like the fan in our bedroom, white, metal, modern and efficient: meant to stir the sub tropical air so that it seems cooler than it is, and it makes a mighty roar that's hard to tune out.
In bed in the city, we lie parallel to one another, exhausted and chasing dutiful sleep; your foot seeks out mine to make sure I'm there to pull you out of bad dreams. Next to me, you breathe deeply, while I, awake, listen to the neighbors upstairs, the birds out front, and the fan's steady beat.
In the country, we curl around one another; the mattress' sag like a black hole pulls us together towards its center. Here, the mountain air is fresh and cooler at night; it almost feels like we can drink it, stirred and unstilled as it is by those wooden blades, and we sleep as if dead: deep and restful.
In the room of my youth, the thick sub-tropical air is heavy and wet; I stare at these familiar bookshelves, now all but emptied. A small white plastic TV is on in the corner, an unfamiliar channel just loud enough to be white noise to beat away the loneliness. I lie on this futon and reach out my own foot, but find only drywall where yours should be. The fan sings its incessant wail, reminding me of where I am.
There you dance on the other side of an ocean,
a dance I can’t understand...
I gave you
these notes, (a choreography)
but your steps are all different now,
and with your back to me,
you spin away.
The girl in the back of the bus had a secret dream: to stay in one place long enough to get bored.
There’s a plum in the pocket of my black wool coat
and when my hand dives in for warmth
it tempts me with its promised sweetness.
I know that when I finally bite,
The juice will run red down my chin
and stain my t-shirt so I wait--
anticipate a little longer.
She's a friend, but not someone you feel passionate about, just someone you pass the time of day or kill time with, whatever, then one day without you realizing it, something changes and you can't wait to see her, and you buy her stupid little gifts like key chains from gum ball machines or bottles of hazel nut iced coffee because she likes it, or pins with funny sayings, you know, just to let her know you think of her sometimes, but nothing too dangerous or telling, but she notices, and suddenly she doesn't answer her phone when you call, and she doesn't ask if you want to get a beer after work, or go shopping with her on Saturday, and she begins to hang out with this guy she works with, no one special or anything, kind of a jerk you think, and it seems like every time you talk to her now she's telling you how the jerk told her this really funny joke, and it turns out to be something you used to tell people when you were in junior high, and it was funny back then, but you were in junior high and you think to yourself, what a jerk, and little by little you stop calling her because all she ever talks about now is this jerk, and you begin to realize how annoying she is and how predictable she's become and you realize how lucky you are that you decided never to tell her how you were beginning to feel.
Conceived by a father who was a dream, and a mother who was form, Story was alas, not to be; stillborn because Story’s mother was too cold to get out of bed where other lovers beckoned from beneath the sheets and behind the curtain, Story would never realize her dreams of Tibetan mountaintops or shy engineer suitors, nor would she parade herself garishly and proudly across snow white pages for all to admire.
Story will be missed.
You stand behind her as she sits at her desk, and in the overhead light, you see as if for the first time, her head, once all brown, now a halo of white, and you don’t feel revulsion that she’s gotten old, nor do you feel sadness at sensing yourself suddenly at the tipped end of the see-saw; you feel gratitude, that someone like she has shared this time, bestowed upon you this history, and those strands of white hair, (more than any ring) will tie you to her forever.
It’s the sweetest part of the night:
you squint through crusted eyes
at the red LED on the cable box
as you return from the bathroom;
it's 3:11.
Quietly, you slip back into bed, so you don't wake her,
but as you settle
with your back to her,
she turns and presses her warm naked body into you
and you smile,
thankful for four more hours.
I’ve tatooed you,
I’ve tatooed you on my soul
in a palette bright and garish,
(blue, red, aqua, purple and gold)
and when I close my eyes
it’s always you I see
and I know for a fact, that
from us, I'd never flee.
I’ve tatooed you, you see,
I’ve tatooed you on my soul
and when with age, I fade
and my days grow short and cold
in me you’ll yet remain
warm and constant, glowing and bold.
admittedly,
I’m a verbal pickpocket
pilfering words from the mouths of babes
amongst whom apparently,
it is the currency
that anything for cool is the trade
so much spent
on this precarious commodity
that in those tender years,
even one's own mortality
is nothing at all, but modest absurdity.
rain dust on the windshield glows
green glows
gold retires
red but like the Moon without the Sun's light
it’s really nothing on its own
shapeshifting people pass by with their dogs, traffic
sweeps up first
diamond yellow silver spikes stab
the night, an illuminated ballet
anticipation grows
“Kid,” they said, “you’ve got the gift of words”, but when no one could figure out who'd given it to me, they reached their hands down my throat to grab it away.
On the page he pours his blood, his soul, and his cum, while in bed, his lover waits, patience ebbing.
I’m vacuuming over by the kitchen, and suddenly surprised by the length of the cord, (I’d thought it was only 9 feet,) I look behind myself to see my wife holding the plug in her hand, and she shouts to me over the whir of the motor, “something strange happened to me today”.
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