Adam (poem)

Adam


Blunder out of Eden, instead of fading into something forgotten;
and take her with you, but she won't look at you.

Not anymore?

Not ever.

What do I do without Eve?

Appropriate.

In my living room, with a ceiling sprung 18 feet from the floor, I can hear every sonic deviation
from my mouth repeated twice, as I put names to groups of words on paper over my mantle.

I need her.

You must stay where you are. Walk on cold floorboards, push them down so they moan
loneliness and make your legs vibrate with it.

I need her.

Not anymore.

In the midst of the apocalypse I'll come through her door, or any door,
to get to her.

She won't know you.

Stop Walking (poem)

Rushing to make the train before the last one leaves,
I came to a crosswalk sign--illuminated,
both emblems lit
(the walker and the hand),
white and red.
The city wants my attention.

I Want You to Know (poem)

When I stare myself down in the bathroom mirror, I snarl until I laugh. When I think about yesterday and the day before that, I felt the need to have a voice, but I didn't speak of it. When I bow my head, lace up my fingers, and wear them like a mask, pretending to listen to others, my eyes are finding the crevices in my skin, openings just big enough to see your hands. When I am alone for too long I think until I scare myself from thought.

Fear (poem)

This is a big one I've been working on for a while...still not sold on the title.


Fear


Terrified to be an animal,
another body fed to the earth.
Unable to process ironies and
left only with this river, wildly meandering
around my ribcage.

I caught my reflection in the plastic,
highly clouded, train door window -
A small silver hair in my beard
a stark white curl.

Terrified of my soul escaping
like a fist full of wet sand
under water.
Leaving before I can figure out why
you are so unknowable.

My shadow is stretching
with the falling star, sinking
behind my favorite mirror.
And when my dark counterpart
melts into black, all the white crabs pop
out from their holes
to keep me company.

***

On the stoop of a village building,
next to the comedy club,
unpacking us with plastered grins...
a guy in our group
Oh, Thank God!
... ...
I'm not a father.
And he pockets his phone.

I have found the tumbled angels,
wings rotted and worn off.
Feathers fall in chalk lines around
the dead...
water-logged
water-boarded
or torture-induced suicide.

***

I see the city Mommy!
I see it too Mommy!
Only these two kids see.
Millions of monoliths being covered
by tempered glass
some with grooves and gargoyles.
We are all bulleting towards it.
And later,
we arrive home...

Tiredly rocking back and forth
I see the child on the beach,
could be me.
Sitting in the shallow tide,
yelling at every wave:
You can do better!
Knock me over!