Thursday, August 21, 2014

Regretful Tea

A while back I was at Lonnie and Suzanne's and
they had a friend over,
a really nice guy,
not a crackhead or a drunk,
just a really nice guy.
I was making tea for Suzanne and myself.
I asked him if he wanted any,
he said "Yes please, thank you."
He was very polite about it.
When the tea was ready I brought him a mug.
I was holding it by the handle and the
tea was steaming.
I passed it to him that way
and when he grabbed the cup
he winced and hissed.
The cup was too hot,
and it burned his hand,
and some scalding tea had spilled out
and burned him some more.
He looked up apologetically and said
"Tender hands."
And I felt like such an asshole.

This Smith-Corona


This Smith Corona has a certain aroma
But old things usually do.
Many have told me
That I’m an old man,
Which I know is uncannily true.
I’m twenty-one years young
And my song has been sung
But I can’t get it out of my head,
I’m blanking on the words
Which must sound absurd,
And I know I should
Get out of bed.
This Smith Corona has a certain aroma,
Is that something I already said?

Dec. 18th, 2013 5:07 PM

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Unlikely Encounters

I'm wandering through a chaotic museum,
through hordes of people and crowded paintings,
walking slowly steadily
but not really taking much in.
I realize I'm looking for you.

Always aware that you might walk up on me.
I'm looking for you in all the paintings and all the galleries.
That woman behind the camera?
Is it you?
Any moment I might bump into you, and until then,
I can't enjoy anything here.

I'm looking for you in the videos.
Sitting on the viewing bench with a seat next to me,
wondering if you'll sit down next to me
out of the blue,
until someone takes the seat I was saving for you
and I get up and wander some more.

Right now I just want a quiet place
to sit and wait for you.
I'll see you once more,
and then I won't see you again.
I might keep looking for you after that,
but hopefully it'll be okay,
and eventually I'll stop.
Until then, I really can't enjoy anything here.

I wish that people weren't allowed to speak here,
the din makes me feel like I won't find you.
I wish we were alone in this museum
and that I could find you sitting in a gallery.

I found the Rothko room,
and I think how you'd never seen one in person before,
and you stood in front of your first Rothko for a long time.
And I'm looking at a Rothko now.
Standing close to it,
being in it,
and I think that I might cry on it.
So I walk away, and I don't cry.

I like to look at the edges of the paintings
in these big institutions and see
the staples in the canvas,
and it reminds me
that the being who made them was human.
But you're not.
You're just an idea,
a memory
until I see you again.
You're just what I see in a Rothko.

Have You Ever Seen An Angel on the F Train?

Have you ever seen an angel on the F train?
All bathed in holy fluorescence, but black
black
black as damp coal.

Have you ever seen one rise up locomotive
out of the ground
thrust upward beaming at the jagged skyline,
Laughing at dusked rooftops?
And sit back coy and cozy like chocolate
barreling back down under Carroll Gardens.
Delighted by the dusty kingdom,
what an angel.
What a withered young, delectable grubber.

Have you ever seen an angel depart at High Street?
Only to look back and see
they weren't there at all,
the platform deserted.

Have you ever seen an angel leap at dawn?
Cackling with a bare breast
gawking at holy towers,
not dreaming but believing
and clinging to every last photon of ecstasy.
Angel of the F train,
come barreling back to me,
open-armed and young.

Monday, March 3, 2014

Spread Our Ashes Here


We got old fast didn’t we buddy?
We made mistakes and
We died sometimes
And did some time
But mostly we just lived hard and gritty.
We still got each other,
so let’s not out-live one another
we’ll all just die when we see fit.
All together we’ll go out with
A Big Bang and a drumroll
And smoke
and sparks
and a fever
and the music will play.
We’ll grow older
But we got old fast
So let’s last
A little while longer
And let the drum-hearts beat
Amongst out
Weary feet.
We’ll leave our ashes in the sidewalks
And the rivers.
We’ll leave our ashes in the palms of
Each others hands
Pounded in so hard to make our hands gray
from saying
What’s good mofugga?
What’s real good?
That way we’ll always be meeting one another again.
We’ll light up
and leave our ashes
every step of the way
in all the neighborhoods
we trampled on
and over
and let our smoke rise at dawn,
rise with the buildings
and glow on in radiance
and light up the purple night
of our sleepless city
forever bearing our sleepless youth.
We got old hard and fast
And cradled each others bones.
Our youth stitched our skins together
And they scabbed over seamlessly.
We’ll leave our ashes everywhere we go,
But we won’t ever leave each other.

December 20th, 2013
3:50 PM

73 days ago

Southwestern Woman


I heard your voice before
I saw your face. You looked
Alsmost as beautifully
Tired as you sounded.
Not that weary but like
You’d be more comfortable if
You were lounging.
You were selling your belongings
Out of a beat technicolored truck.
I wondered how many miles
You’d covered in it and
How I’d like to roam
In a truck like yours.
I felt foolishly youthful
In your presence.
I tried on your hat
-which had initially caught
my eye.
            You told me to let my Harrison Ford out.
The hat fit well but it
Didn’t seem right.
            You told me you liked it with my bandana.
Perhaps it was the scenery
That was wrong.
The wrong time and place for us to meet.
I liked that you could kneel
Around me, and
Look me in the eye.
            I said I don’t know,
            I’m not in Utah anymore.
You said:
            Truer words could not be spoken.

And I thought
More eloquent small talk could not be had.
I can’t talk that way,
I can’t even write that way and you
Didn’t even have to think about it.
            Where in Utah are you from?
You asked me and I chuckled
            No, I’m from New York City,
            But I fell in love with Utah.
You said you
            Came from Arizona, and that
            The southwest is beautiful.
I nodded and prolonged saying goodbye.
You said next time
            I should come inside, and
Lock my bike up to your bumper.

And I don’t even mind
That I don’t know your name.

Oct. 26th, 2013
10:18 PM

128 days ago

Sunday, March 2, 2014

The Bedlamite


Some of us are condemned
To sing the song of the bedlamite.
It takes a whole tragedy chorus
To make vibrations,
Otherwise it’s a mumble dirge,
And the onlooker has trouble
Deciphering the words.
It sounds a bit like Sunday school children
Parroting nonsense in unison.
It’s creepy, I tell you
And I do it daily
In my solitude.
And I wonder,
Can anyone hear me?
Can anyone see me?


October 29th, 2013