POEM: dark child

Posted 28 September, 2011 in My poems, Poetry

From Trixie Whitley at Rockwood Music Hall (9/27/11)

dark child

she pounds the stage to splinters
with a booted heel
rips melodies from the strings
beats the piano into submission
all the while apologizing for the violence
singing us onto the rocks
with a voice won from God
in a game of dice (fuck you, Einstein)
her strong blood is on the keys, the frets
a hum from the amp like crazed wasps
I hear Belgium is nice this time of year
but on Allen Street the rain is coming
and there’s no way to escape it
rats are running in the tunnels
we couldn’t be happier

PHOTOS: Trixie Whitley at Rockwood Music Hall (9-29-11)

Posted 27 September, 2011 in Music

From Trixie Whitley at Rockwood Music Hall (9/27/11)

The sublime Trixie Whitley performed a (mostly) solo set of (mostly) new songs at Rockwood Music Hall. Here are my photos:

POEM: the whip

Posted 26 September, 2011 in My poems, Poetry

the whip

ain’t nothing moist in a whipping story
she told me / showed me
the bruises on her knuckles
held an ice pack to her left thigh
then there were delicate silk straps
across her shoulders / her hair fanned out
on the cloud-white pillow
the only color the red on her lips
bruised hands beneath the sheets
it’s an acquired taste
she said / and turned away
I’m trapped / held against my will
like one of her customers
they ask her for it / beg her for it
with me no force is necessary
I’m begging the moment she arrives
even though I never feel the hard slap
of her palm / or the sting of her toys
I tell her I’ve given up
released her back into the wild
where she feels more at home
but it isn’t true / the truth is
I keep a corner of my closet
cleared out / just in case
and I steel myself for the blow
I hope she’ll someday deliver

POEM: cafe song

Posted 23 September, 2011 in My poems, New York City, Poetry

cafe song

the rain is falling in Sunset Park
as the potbellied men come into the cafe
for their noontime sandwiches
rare roast beef and a slice of cheesecake
washed down by hot black coffee

*

a ponytailed professor reads comic books
on his laptop and drinks Japanese tea
while a bald kid writes song lyrics
and nurses a glass of water

*

up in the balcony, two young lovers
(aren’t they always?)
play Brooklyn Monopoly
dry their wet heads with paper towels
hold steaming cups of chai in four hands

*

the baristas, men and women,
are young and beautiful
smoking on their coffee breaks
falling in love with the customers
who are falling in love with them

*

come away with me, she sings
as the cappuccino machine whirs
and the dumbwaiter rumbles
up to the balcony with something
to take the edge off the rain

POEM: curiosity killed the cat … but the monkey was only wounded

Posted 22 September, 2011 in My poems, Poetry

curiosity killed the cat … but the monkey was only wounded

are you curious, George
about how you ended up here
on a September evening
under the Christmas tree lights
that they never take down

you told me your secret
waited for me to hate you
expecting as little of me
as of others before

your secret was small
I held it in my palm
closed my fingers over it

POEM: she wears a feather on her arm

Posted 16 September, 2011 in My poems, Poetry

she wears a feather on her arm

she wears a feather on her arm
because a heart is too personal a thing
to expose to the changing air

after the gig, in a Paris bar
she makes conversation with the damaged man
tends to the cuts on his hands

she rides a Harley on the interstate
worrying about the crash
dreaming of the Big Sky Country

she deflects the too easy “I love you”
longs for a secluded hideaway
nestled among the Brooklyn streets

someplace they could be together
where he could play the guitar and she
could make new entries in her book of happiness

for now she’s bumming a ride to Florida
one blackbird in a flock of doves
the feathered girl looking for a place to land

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