Two days ago
I slurped a thin sheen of grease
off a dollar slice
with a new friend
local hustler,
a Sec-8 All Star
Now it's mid-morning
Two days walk
from city limits
and the farmer's market
a couple hundred yards
from the trail
hustles smiles
It's a social occaision
my feet are propped
It's smiles and puppies
and air smelling slightly
like fresh yogurt
its tang plays free association
with my childhood
and I am as easy as my feet
Outside Sal's
J told me excitedly
he'd love to go hiking
says it eagerly
knowing he's not going
to get clowned by
a white boy from
Pennsylvania
In Palisades
a man gives me an apple
after I offer a quarter
west Africa trills softly
on his tongue
the Orchards of Conklin
have farmed Rockland
from 1712
A woman watches
at the trash can
as two white men
mistake her table as empty
and then seated
ask to join her
and she politely excuses herself.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
A Step Away from Him
It's morning, rush hour,
and people jam themselves
onto the downtown 2--
to say they look like sardines
would be too obvious,
they are softer, yet
more rigid-- a dozen tongues
in a kissing person's mouth.
On the street it's getting
warmer, and a young man
leaned against a railing says
honey
to me, so gently as I pass,
as if we were waking up
together, as if
he were cradling my face,
that I'm surprised enough
to stop and look at him,
even though I don't mean to,
and all the little birds scatter
like the teeth of a drunk
when he hits the floor.
and people jam themselves
onto the downtown 2--
to say they look like sardines
would be too obvious,
they are softer, yet
more rigid-- a dozen tongues
in a kissing person's mouth.
On the street it's getting
warmer, and a young man
leaned against a railing says
honey
to me, so gently as I pass,
as if we were waking up
together, as if
he were cradling my face,
that I'm surprised enough
to stop and look at him,
even though I don't mean to,
and all the little birds scatter
like the teeth of a drunk
when he hits the floor.
Day 11, Poem 11: Conjure Aphrodite
Conjure Aphrodite
from her birth home
derived from loins
and sea foam
Patron Saint
of ancient
hookers
and totem
for horny sailors
In Mesopotamia
they called her Ishtar,
Inanna
the original
"ill na-na,"
Courtesans
fuck men
in
succession,
unison,
as worship
to their
Goddess
of lust and
physical love
Lover
and surrogate
mother to
Adonis
and Ares
jealous
of this
crazed like a
wild boar
frustrated
young gun Adonis
castrated
and sent to Hell
Nubile boys
and wise
old men
justify
acting on
their base
desires
in her name
they bathe
and play
rites of
passage
and defamation
patrons to
your
celebration
Conjure Aphrodite...
Eat
drink-
each other-
and be merry...
Conjure Aphrodite
from her birth home
derived from loins
and sea foam
Patron Saint
of ancient
hookers
and totem
for horny sailors
In Mesopotamia
they called her Ishtar,
Inanna
the original
"ill na-na,"
Courtesans
fuck men
in
succession,
unison,
as worship
to their
Goddess
of lust and
physical love
Lover
and surrogate
mother to
Adonis
and Ares
jealous
of this
crazed like a
wild boar
frustrated
young gun Adonis
castrated
and sent to Hell
Nubile boys
and wise
old men
justify
acting on
their base
desires
in her name
they bathe
and play
rites of
passage
and defamation
patrons to
your
celebration
Conjure Aphrodite...
Eat
drink-
each other-
and be merry...
Day 10, Poem 10: Hanging On a String (tentative)
Day
or night
you call
jump like
jackrabbit
heart seizes
pulse jets
My fingers
indelible
inside you
always
keeper of
your internal
rhythm
of your trust
my name
dug in
like incantation
yet another
covets
your thrust
bone
lacking
No recompense
or comparison
no consolation
in makeshift beginnings
to cover
open endings
never ending
where we
began
How long
does this
continue
before
I break?
Choose
and admit
what we
already know
Or go
and leave me
to my ruin
And still
we'll know
the truth
You're calling
again...
Day
or night
you call
jump like
jackrabbit
heart seizes
pulse jets
My fingers
indelible
inside you
always
keeper of
your internal
rhythm
of your trust
my name
dug in
like incantation
yet another
covets
your thrust
bone
lacking
No recompense
or comparison
no consolation
in makeshift beginnings
to cover
open endings
never ending
where we
began
How long
does this
continue
before
I break?
Choose
and admit
what we
already know
Or go
and leave me
to my ruin
And still
we'll know
the truth
You're calling
again...
Day 6, Poem 6: Moratorium
Someone called a moratorium on giving a shit,
and no one's lifting it
Young men still kill each other over hard glances
Young women still stumble home alone, too drunk,
taking chances
Someone called a moratorium on respect,
and souls grew mossy with neglect
Young toughs go gay-bashing in the
name of church and beer
Young women sacrifice their souls
baptized in cum and fear
Someone called a moratorium on heart and
no one turned as debt dwarfed art
Loves wither and bend beneath the weighty
wind of distrust
Souls smolder in ashes of reckless abandon,
flames fueled by lust.
Someone called a moratorium on giving a shit,
and no one's lifting it
Young men still kill each other over hard glances
Young women still stumble home alone, too drunk,
taking chances
Someone called a moratorium on respect,
and souls grew mossy with neglect
Young toughs go gay-bashing in the
name of church and beer
Young women sacrifice their souls
baptized in cum and fear
Someone called a moratorium on heart and
no one turned as debt dwarfed art
Loves wither and bend beneath the weighty
wind of distrust
Souls smolder in ashes of reckless abandon,
flames fueled by lust.
Were You Surprised?
The backroom of Luigi's Italian in Queens is my family's first witness.The last time I was here, funeral.The time before that, First Communion.Now, birthday.I think of all the witty toasts,
jokes and genuinity, breaded angst and salty love that were muffled because of their air conditioner. I think of all the surprises and whether the reaction to a surprise 50th, a surprise death, a surprise proposal were legitimate enough to be on Bravo. I think of all the times I've not known what has happened to my Grandma, my fatherless cousin, my crippled aunt and how many times I've been boothed, cornered with nothing to say but a psalm for my lossed naivete. Apparently you can't wish anything to an almost fifty year old. They don't believe in birthdays unless they begin with Pinot Grigio. Same menu. I wonder what kind of dessert we had after the funeral. Did they serve the vanilla bean ice cream with a chocolate sauce or something more dense? Morbid, I know, but the guy loved his cheesecake. I'm sure "he would have wanted it this way." A celebration is a cope, as they shove it in your face just put some cheese and sauce on it and hope they didn't pre-order the calamari. Yesterday, I was triple-played by two boys with autism and my cousin who will never walk again. A 30 year old jailed in leg braces, I'll try not to talk about running. Sometimes, I thank God we only do these things at night or else I'm pretty sure Icarus himself would fall threw the sunroof and into my Chicken Parm. I hear he is quite the party crasher and who wouldn't want to be at this one?
jokes and genuinity, breaded angst and salty love that were muffled because of their air conditioner. I think of all the surprises and whether the reaction to a surprise 50th, a surprise death, a surprise proposal were legitimate enough to be on Bravo. I think of all the times I've not known what has happened to my Grandma, my fatherless cousin, my crippled aunt and how many times I've been boothed, cornered with nothing to say but a psalm for my lossed naivete. Apparently you can't wish anything to an almost fifty year old. They don't believe in birthdays unless they begin with Pinot Grigio. Same menu. I wonder what kind of dessert we had after the funeral. Did they serve the vanilla bean ice cream with a chocolate sauce or something more dense? Morbid, I know, but the guy loved his cheesecake. I'm sure "he would have wanted it this way." A celebration is a cope, as they shove it in your face just put some cheese and sauce on it and hope they didn't pre-order the calamari. Yesterday, I was triple-played by two boys with autism and my cousin who will never walk again. A 30 year old jailed in leg braces, I'll try not to talk about running. Sometimes, I thank God we only do these things at night or else I'm pretty sure Icarus himself would fall threw the sunroof and into my Chicken Parm. I hear he is quite the party crasher and who wouldn't want to be at this one?
Monday, April 12, 2010
Petals in D Minor
White chrysanthemum
its billowing ostrich plume
is music's flower
This Spring
is baptism by chrysanthemum
The air so sweet
its current plays
in opacity
Like how
the saddest notes
float as apparition
Nylon strings
mingle with Jamaica rum
And from the street
the melody sways
in the weaver's audacity
The flowers bow
they weep then float
their beauty is their contrition
Over in Europe
Chrysanthemums bone white
reserved only for the dead
Self-Conscious
I am a little girl whose gotten too old
Since last September.
A lover shaped by death
A loser shaped by life. A friend-
No a sister.
Sister to those who wear pink frosting on their lips.
Pushing out more love than my blood can hold.
Trying to be a selfless granddaughter.
Thanking God I’m not a mother.
A bitch who can’t quite hack it and
feels guilt for days.
A wealthy white girl who loves black art.
I am a brain exhausted from analyzing itself
Trying to plan life before it screws me again.
Sheild up- alone in a city of millions.
Its 2:55 on Monday April 12th
Six days since I’ve been to the cemetery
Exactly 96 hours til he holds me.
Avoiding outdoors because the subway should have been bombed today
Sending flames into the cloudless blue sky
But it didn’t
Instead a
Afghan people chant “Death to
Broke up again. It’s lunchtime
But I’ve lost my appetite.
Hidden at the end of the hallway
On the air mattress that consumes the living room,
the one I stole from the bitch who fucked my boyfriend.
Sitting in the shadow of a tower of dishes
With sparkling sunlight
Bouncing off the 3 day old tequila soaked shot glasses.
Protected in my shelter
Three blocks from the dirty river
Two blocks from the dirtier hospital
I see dead flowers in another student’s window
And hear children’s giggles rising from the schoolyard
My computer is missing a crucial key
The glow of YouTube coercing me into getting lost within it…again.
Music from high school plays from
The bedroom I abandoned.
A stained paper plate lies ravished on the floor
From the cake that had her face on it.
Elmo and Janis smirk at me from the walls
And it doesn’t smell like spring in here.
The Polish President has just died.
I’m taking advantage of solitary time-
Rushing before the metal door opens and slams shut
Not putting off the poem in my head –
Forcing inspiration so I don’t feel guilty for staying in.
This poem- it mocks me like all that came before it
Unlike usual, it won’t beat me this time.
Need to write another for the thirty/thirty
Finally using theatre with the poetry it negates
Objective: I want prove I can do it- to find a voice I want to share
Tactic: to say fuck you and mean it
Because I really am fan-fucking-tastic and know it
Distraction, fear, lack of a thesaurus and a dulling pencil
All get in my way, creating an intricate obstacle course
Of ideas and school supplies
But to get what I want
I breathe
Shake out my hand
Forget erasers exist
Click off the news
Take one big sip
And write just one more line than I planned.
Lovers Like Their Lies
Mother,
I have spread my legs
for men
I do not like
and barely connect with.
I spread them
while holding on
to a two-pronged lie
that said
my hurt
would drain from my mind
if I fucked enough men
for three lifetimes,
and broke them
like hand warmed
beer bottles
into indecipherable
glass pieces.
Mama,
you were the one
who taught me
how to love.
But you never said anything
about loving in moderation
and loving
only after
a period of honest interactions
and yogic contemplation.
I loved him, mom.
And I thought he loved me sometimes too.
But I knew.
I have spread my legs
for men
I do not like
and barely connect with.
I spread them
while holding on
to a two-pronged lie
that said
my hurt
would drain from my mind
if I fucked enough men
for three lifetimes,
and broke them
like hand warmed
beer bottles
into indecipherable
glass pieces.
Mama,
you were the one
who taught me
how to love.
But you never said anything
about loving in moderation
and loving
only after
a period of honest interactions
and yogic contemplation.
I loved him, mom.
And I thought he loved me sometimes too.
But I knew.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Done Day
I
A friend of mine,
an attractive man, with a girlfriend,
falls asleep in my bed.
Falls asleep with his hat on.
Neither of us notice
that the other is there,
asleep in only t-shirts,
with the hot window open.
In the morning, I wake up
to his alarm. He's still here.
We wave goodbye
to each other, and I'm not sure
we even speak.
I notice the sun
on his cheek.
I make coffee.
It's my only option.
I resent the brick wall
outside my window.
I get undressed
and back in bed.
I'm in search
of Duende.
II
I cannot find it.
I put on a dress
when an ex-lover calls,
wanting my company, always,
wanting it his way. I love
being around him,
so I say no, for the first time
in a long time. I'm trying
the best that I can.
I'm mean.
I say, "I have a life,"
and feel like a liar.
I go outside. I sit
on my stoop. I'm just trying
to breathe. To inhale,
trying so hard, oh Lorca.
I inhale, inhale. Empty, still.
My lungs suck in
as a valley, in,
in as a void.
I inhale, inhale,
filling my body
with air.
The world blows
and blows, so blue
with breath, with wind,
with nothing.
My dress whirls.
I am swollen
with the sorrow
of letting him go.
A friend of mine,
an attractive man, with a girlfriend,
falls asleep in my bed.
Falls asleep with his hat on.
Neither of us notice
that the other is there,
asleep in only t-shirts,
with the hot window open.
In the morning, I wake up
to his alarm. He's still here.
We wave goodbye
to each other, and I'm not sure
we even speak.
I notice the sun
on his cheek.
I make coffee.
It's my only option.
I resent the brick wall
outside my window.
I get undressed
and back in bed.
I'm in search
of Duende.
II
I cannot find it.
I put on a dress
when an ex-lover calls,
wanting my company, always,
wanting it his way. I love
being around him,
so I say no, for the first time
in a long time. I'm trying
the best that I can.
I'm mean.
I say, "I have a life,"
and feel like a liar.
I go outside. I sit
on my stoop. I'm just trying
to breathe. To inhale,
trying so hard, oh Lorca.
I inhale, inhale. Empty, still.
My lungs suck in
as a valley, in,
in as a void.
I inhale, inhale,
filling my body
with air.
The world blows
and blows, so blue
with breath, with wind,
with nothing.
My dress whirls.
I am swollen
with the sorrow
of letting him go.
Social Streakers for Walsh 403
Building friendship
on stolen decor,
scraps of newspapers
tape our walls,
when you see
NO DRINKS BEYOND THIS POINT
you better believe
this is homecoming.
Welcome to
the social masochist's Eden,
a wonderland
of leopard print,
Kelis soundtracks,
plastic vodka,
and a 50% sobriety rate.
Enter the trance
of petty destruction--
stolen meeting signs,
bolted doors,
searing chocolate,
our own Fight Club.
Boys transform
with every themed party,
another shot,
a new head.
They don't get
"Christmas in the Future"
but the neon skyline
of predator photo shoots,
exhaled confessions,
slip 'n slide breakups
is just enough metallica.
Come.
And we'll crash the Upper East Side.
Come.
And we'll beat up the entire bar for chapped knuckles.
Come.
And we'll climb the speakers to our own beat.
Come.
And we'll make out with your little brother.
Come.
And we'll make drugs into pink cupcakes.
As the list shrinks,
our fur grows,
a dorm turns into a legend,
a den turns into dare or double dare,
our battered kitchen,
our clogged pipes,
the beaten down beds,
our newspaper Picasso,
a charmed ethos.
Show us the dread of tomorrow
and we'll make it a drinking game.
Show us the scars of the past
and we'll make it a grocery list.
Even after move out day
I still live here,
with my five home girls.
Sunday morning with one
grind chain of a story to tell.
on stolen decor,
scraps of newspapers
tape our walls,
when you see
NO DRINKS BEYOND THIS POINT
you better believe
this is homecoming.
Welcome to
the social masochist's Eden,
a wonderland
of leopard print,
Kelis soundtracks,
plastic vodka,
and a 50% sobriety rate.
Enter the trance
of petty destruction--
stolen meeting signs,
bolted doors,
searing chocolate,
our own Fight Club.
Boys transform
with every themed party,
another shot,
a new head.
They don't get
"Christmas in the Future"
but the neon skyline
of predator photo shoots,
exhaled confessions,
slip 'n slide breakups
is just enough metallica.
Come.
And we'll crash the Upper East Side.
Come.
And we'll beat up the entire bar for chapped knuckles.
Come.
And we'll climb the speakers to our own beat.
Come.
And we'll make out with your little brother.
Come.
And we'll make drugs into pink cupcakes.
As the list shrinks,
our fur grows,
a dorm turns into a legend,
a den turns into dare or double dare,
our battered kitchen,
our clogged pipes,
the beaten down beds,
our newspaper Picasso,
a charmed ethos.
Show us the dread of tomorrow
and we'll make it a drinking game.
Show us the scars of the past
and we'll make it a grocery list.
Even after move out day
I still live here,
with my five home girls.
Sunday morning with one
grind chain of a story to tell.
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