Dear Darling,
Day. Darling dear. Today, I woke up. I stabbed the bottom of my foot on the pointed tongue of my belt that I left on the floor from the night before. But I hopped. Foppishly. Got in the car. Went ridin' to your door. Knock knock. You there? Dear? Knock knock. Darling? I went around. I did. To the window. Looked through the back, it was cracked. So, I billowed in. Smoke stacks. Your throat smacks. Not coughs. Not clearings. Your unhappy snap-backs. I don't like snap-backs. But, I've got a strong back. Upright. You're uptight. I wrote to you. This letter. I read to you, this letter. I tell you things like. Girl, I wish I was gay. Men could never make me feel quite this way. She looks un-mellow. I don't wanna say cold. Ice cold. It's too overdone. Cliché. I needed a phrase to run fresh my way, but the only thing fresh my way was me and this letter. Hear me. Hear me. I knew you couldn't wait. For me to make some mistake. Maybe the same mistake as one of my many mistakes. One of the many mistakes that I'm unaware I make. One extra reason for you to think I'm a flake, or that I'm like a fly on a wall continuously landing, forgetting that every time I do I vomit. That's the pain of being awake. But. Not today. No. No. Today. My letter. That I wrote for you, inevitable you. Astoundingly predictable. Just waiting for me--you. I'm not gonna hold it in. I want you to know now, I called this in. There's not much to say that I know the insanity in...being with you.
Love,
Your man.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Melt (poem)
Melt
Either air that has color, must that I can swim through
filling my lungs like the bad drink;
Or swarms of tiny things with needle faces poking
red insecurities, itchy mounds.
Either the exploding heat of leather exposed to leg
and frion-less AC blowing murky from vents;
Or a selfish sun screaming from two surfaces,
sucking liquid from skin--leaving red and thirsty.
Imagine a departure from sameness, particles of sweat
dangling from anxious hairs. It's a sunken highway,
an underpass away from the scenic route.
The swells of swelter like erasers clapping against dusty
chalkboards, forgetting what was written and recalling
only the cough caused by all those particles that collected,
a cork in your throat.
Don't tell me fun and sell me on breezes and beaches,
because you will fail as we all do
as gawky creatures. As we do.
Either air that has color, must that I can swim through
filling my lungs like the bad drink;
Or swarms of tiny things with needle faces poking
red insecurities, itchy mounds.
Either the exploding heat of leather exposed to leg
and frion-less AC blowing murky from vents;
Or a selfish sun screaming from two surfaces,
sucking liquid from skin--leaving red and thirsty.
Imagine a departure from sameness, particles of sweat
dangling from anxious hairs. It's a sunken highway,
an underpass away from the scenic route.
The swells of swelter like erasers clapping against dusty
chalkboards, forgetting what was written and recalling
only the cough caused by all those particles that collected,
a cork in your throat.
Don't tell me fun and sell me on breezes and beaches,
because you will fail as we all do
as gawky creatures. As we do.
Monday, July 30, 2012
The Wolf (poem)
The Wolf
I'm taking in old air, the kind of air that's filled with a year's worth of dust being thrown from a fan blade. I'm the big bad wolf lookin' for a reason to blow a house down. I'm huffing and puffing, but my lungs are filling with dirty cotton particles and dead skin from the clothes and bodies of my family. It turns into a hacking...hacking...hacking until it snuffs me out. Subdued on the guest bed, because my old room is just too full of those nights I was left alone to think about what I had done. Everyday dreamers die, or, maybe they just go home and are looked upon by their mothers as if they never left.
I'm taking in old air, the kind of air that's filled with a year's worth of dust being thrown from a fan blade. I'm the big bad wolf lookin' for a reason to blow a house down. I'm huffing and puffing, but my lungs are filling with dirty cotton particles and dead skin from the clothes and bodies of my family. It turns into a hacking...hacking...hacking until it snuffs me out. Subdued on the guest bed, because my old room is just too full of those nights I was left alone to think about what I had done. Everyday dreamers die, or, maybe they just go home and are looked upon by their mothers as if they never left.
Uneven (poem)
Uneven
Out my living room window I watch a little girl trip
on uneven sidewalk tile and crack her knee against
sunlit concrete. There is a little scratch and a lot of crying;
her father kneels down to kiss the knee--blood between
his lips, he mouths something I can only read as,
All better? And the little girl says nothing, instead
she looks up and stops crying.
Sunlight hits me from between the cables of the Verazzano
and I remember your fingertips.
Out my living room window I watch a little girl trip
on uneven sidewalk tile and crack her knee against
sunlit concrete. There is a little scratch and a lot of crying;
her father kneels down to kiss the knee--blood between
his lips, he mouths something I can only read as,
All better? And the little girl says nothing, instead
she looks up and stops crying.
Sunlight hits me from between the cables of the Verazzano
and I remember your fingertips.
Friday, April 13, 2012
May 21, 1972 (poem)
May 21, 1972*
Oh, sweet Mary, your sadness swallows
me downward
to stone,
luminous
marble grown from the goodness of the ground.
I dropped my keys, left them here
they too sprouted--
a dome.
An awning to watch over you, mother--
dead
beautiful
in the eyes. Too beautiful
in
the
eyes.
"I am Jesus Christ--risen
from
the
dead."
Oh, sweet Mary, your kindness swells
through immortality,
I'm your son
and I bring
glorious life.
Do you feel my presence?
Thunderous
Hammering
And quiet
as an asylum.
*On May 21, 1972 I rose again and was arrested
for the desecration of my
mother.
Monday, April 9, 2012
YES, Poetry (published photo)
My photo of St. Pats on 5th Ave. has been published in this months issue of Yes, Poetry. Click on the link to see my cover photo. Also, you can download the issue for free as a PDF. Just follow the prompts to do so!
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Why aren't You Laughing (poem)
Why aren't You Laughing
We are rock
spark clacking
rock sediment
with no sentiment
the devil crawled
into my eyes
just as he has
into yours
no love, none
only waking
lonely fingers
lanky bones
crush Adam's apple
and your eyes
roll backward
can you see him
the devil stare
head bowled
cackling at you
and I'm cackling
at you, my darling
nevermind the world
and never the birds
who flew behind
why aren't you
laughing, why don't we
shake hands
We are rock
spark clacking
rock sediment
with no sentiment
the devil crawled
into my eyes
just as he has
into yours
no love, none
only waking
lonely fingers
lanky bones
crush Adam's apple
and your eyes
roll backward
can you see him
the devil stare
head bowled
cackling at you
and I'm cackling
at you, my darling
nevermind the world
and never the birds
who flew behind
why aren't you
laughing, why don't we
shake hands
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)