listening to Tom Waits’ Small Change

you’re sleeping close to me
holding one of my hands
in both of yours
there’s a candle on the dresser
another on the night table
a third behind the two Buddhas
on my map, our rivers
don’t meet anywhere
which just goes to show
it’s worth getting out
to see for yourself
the mapmakers can get it wrong
there could be just one big river
right off the edge of the page

can come with an open hand
or at the tip of a sharp tongue
it covers up the salty taste of tears
you call me “sweetheart” afterward
I can’t think of anything to say during dinner
that won’t sound like a lie
later, in bed, you lace your fingers in mine
I hold my breath like a condemned prisoner
my hair is turning gray on this diet of ashes
my tongue lies heavy in my mouth
I’m betraying the fading light beneath my skin

/ / /

It’s been a while since I finished a poem. I wrote this one at the Museum of Modern Art in New York today after seeing the “Sweet Violence” exhibit for the second time. Please go see it if you can.

Photo source

sing me a Haitian song

sing mules and horses on the mountainside
          a calabash of river water to wash in
          another to drink

sing to me of the climbing tree
          four uncles on the summit waiting
          for the return of the prodigal nephew

sing me an African rhythm
          drawn from the source of the one true river
          that became the ocean and surrounded the islands

sing to me of proud women with straight backs
          burdens atop their heads as they appear and disappear
          on the peaks and in the valleys

sing me a policeman’s song
          a wide-brimmed hat his badge of office
          his horse weary from climbing

sing me a Brooklyn dance, no music but the drum
          to remake their lost island in an old meeting hall
          filled with vegetable stew and mountain stories

sing me sixty-odd years since then
          the boy once mesmerized by the drummer
          returning to old ground as a man of the drum himself

/ / /

This poem is inspired by an interview I conducted with drummer Andrew Cyrille. You can hear the interview here.

post office, Sunset Park

digging on Mississippi John Hurt
the definite article
watching a guy try and fail
to zip his leather jacket

Italian-American bus driver tells
African-American postal clerk
he’s looking for Tony Bennet stamps
“I’m still stuck with these Kwanzaa stamps.”

“Lucky for you it’s Kwanzaa again.”
          Laughter.
Mississippi John Hurt is singing about
fish and money. But not really.

Orion on Prospect Avenue

sharp sword dangling from his belt
swinging back and forth
above the Chinese grocery
the Middle Eastern restaurants
the yarn shop with its scarves-to-be

I’m walking up the hill wondering
just how far away those stars are
I know they’re not even near one another
Orion is a picture people made
from a story they invented

the cold, cloudless night
makes the hunter’s broad shoulders
stand out above the Catholic church
where tomorrow’s worshipers
will gather to hedge their bets

a little farther up the hill
is a three-story brick building
where rice is cooking and curry
with potatoes and carrots and onions
is bubbling on the stove

meanwhile the hunter stalks the avenue
in a city where people seldom look up at the sky

Listen to this poem using the player above.

/ / /

expenses

$1.00 for the three congueros
          on the D train
          black men with beautiful braids
          down their backs
          too meticulous to be dreadlocks

$5.00 for queso made from yeast
          bought from a friendly former hippie
          in a Bushwick bar
          where a bomb would have
          devoured all the vegans

$1.00 for a bottle of water
          on the subway platform
          at Columbus Circle
          to wash down the pills
          that make the sun shine
          ”better living through chemistry”

$10.40 for an everything bagel with
          eggs and cheddar
          and a plain bagel with
          tofu cream cheese
          eaten with my lover
          on a bench in Prospect Park

$104.00 for a MetroCard
          to let me move between boroughs
          for a month
          until it runs out when I’m broke
          and on the way
          to somewhere important

$3.87 for yet another bagel
          and a strawberry iced tea
          before the sun came up
          in Sunset Park
          where I wouldn’t have been
          but for her

Listen to this poem using the player above.

/ / /

cotton candy

God was on the G train today
disguised as an Ecuadorian man in his 40s
He was selling cotton candy
dozens of bags of it like palm leaves
stapled to the top of a long stick
it’s a thankless job, being God
and also selling cotton candy
having to ride the G is a bit of a drag, too
especially on a Sunday
still, though, after all the years
pushing abstinence and devotion
cotton candy is an easier product to market
the kids like it, too, in a way they
never cottoned (sorry) to His book
at Bergen Street the Devil got on
selling blinky lights and flashlights
for two bucks a pop
he is the Light Bearer, after all
and let’s be honest, he’s a much better salesman
funny that after all the casting down and the weeping
and the wailing and the gnashing of teeth
they’re both on the same train
trying to make a buck

Listen to this poem using the player above.

/ / /

sorry, Larry

after being called downstairs
every four goddamned hours
I justifiably killed Larry
maybe not on purpose (quite)
rather seductively, tentatively
under very wan
xanthic — yellow — zinnias

/ / /

I’ve been reading Charles Bernstein’s Attack Of The Difficult Poems and decided to try some of the poetry writing experiments he mentions there. You’ll find them listed here. This experiment was to write a poem where each word begins with the next letter of the alphabet.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

/ / /

This poem is a combination of images from my past and images from the present.

natsukashii

genmaicha leaves
in a clay pot

Tokyo sounds
subway travels

tatami mats
against our legs

tangy curry
from little cubes

Tonari no
Totoro &

a cat who steps
on his belly

maybe you should
kiss me again

Listen to this poem using the player above.

/ / /

hiccup

I’m not even sure how to spell it
hiccup? hiccough?
one of the body’s mysteries
a reminder that our agency
is illusory / at any moment
the physical can reassert control
stop a heart at the dinner table
collapse legs on a busy street
as a packed bus bears down
I could awaken tomorrow
having taken my last step
handwritten my last poem
are these words worth it?
in the constant glare
of oncoming headlights
I reach for
(my notebook)
(the phone)
(my lover’s cool white hand)

Listen to this poem using the player above.

/ / /

Tonight I went to see Foolish Hearts, a duo with Peter Eldridge and Matt Aronoff. They were amazing — a master class in musicianship at the highest level paired with an incredibly emotional connection with the crowd. As I often do, I wrote a poem while listening to them. This is an acrostic poem. Not a format I often use, but it seemed like a fun place to start. I took several photos tonight, too, which you can see here.

From

poems for foolish hearts

1.

picture me
even now, waiting
till you arrive
even now
remembering the last time
even now
looking toward the back of the room
darting ever-so-casual glances
ready to wave you over
I have to confess I
didn’t expect to be here alone
giving myself over to the music
even now

2.

meet me
at Cornelia Street
tonight, wearing
that dress
ask me to
remember
or kiss me
now before
one of us
falls to earth
from this narrow ledge

Listen to this poem using the player above.

/ / /

cafe conversation

boat pulls alongside
cannons firing
captain peers
through the smoke
for signs of a hit
shouted orders
harsh commands
the meaty thunk of balls
rammed into cannon mouths
tongues of flame following
as they fly
into the manufactured fog
a moment’s quiet would reveal
that his prey
slipped into the night
long ago
•
the sea floor
is thick
with misplaced iron

Listen to this poem using the player above.

/ / /

noir

I could write a hundred poems
about the look of your sleeping face
here where the wood stove waits
for fast-approaching winter

I’m on the floor in front of your couch
surrounded by books of poetry
kept company by the constant hum
of our modern age and the ageless
sound of your breathing

not even Sam Spade could unravel
the intricate mystery of how
we came to be here tonight
but as soon as you walked into the cafe
I knew you were trouble

Listen to this poem using the player above.

/ / /

Thanksgiving Day

Prospect Ave rooftop
two sisters, one lover
endless blue sky
iced tea and cigarettes
next roof over pigeons
gathered for the holiday

we laugh, hold hands
feel the sun on our faces
grateful for the morning
for bagels and cream cheese
for reunited families
for the laughter of children

half my heart is missing
the other half is here

Listen to this poem using the player above.

/ / /

Elwood P. Dowd

these days
everyone is
beautiful

I may not
have a
rabbit

but I’m trying
to make
friends

Listen to this poem using the player above.

I wrote this today on the 6 train while listening to John Cale’s album Vintage Violence.

/ / /

Cale on the 6

John Cale’s on the uptown 6
singing about Adelaide
Spring to Bleeker to Astor Place
on a November day
that finally feels like winter
there’s a guy a few seats down
who’s a ringer for Robert Pinsky
(whom I last saw in Boston
reading poems to commemorate 9/11)
five more stops and I’ll be at the temple
with the money lenders and usurers
meanwhile there are happy hands
clapping on the Cale album
and a tambourine that sounds
like a baby laughing
I feel I should tell you this
so we’ll both know

Listen to this poem using the player above.

I saw Mark Turner play at Jazz Standard a few months back and wrote a poem while watching him. The poem was longer than this version and I kept trying to figure out what else to add. Finally, after being away from it for a while, I not only decided not to add anything, I decided to take things away. Here’s the result.

/ / /

the king’s clothes

corduroy-suited tenorman
plays non-clichéd blues
in clichéd suede shoes

on his furrowed brow
the image of a lotus

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Sometimes you meet people who immediately become family.

/ / /

for Andrea and Ken

my socked feet
on your couch

noodles
with burglar’s thigh

this table
feels like home

Listen to this poem using the player above.

My sister and I went to the Museum of Modern Art to see the new exhibition of murals by Diego Rivera. I wrote this poem based on one of them.

Rivera’s The Uprising

it’s her hand, not his
that stops the soldier’s blade
while with the other
she cradles her newborn child
who cries from the noise

the dead and wounded
cover the ground like fallen leaves
as a phalanx of armed men
in earthen brown
swing wooden rifle stocks
at the faces of the newly free

men in peasant caps and overalls
no weapons but their fists and hearts
stand shoulder to shoulder
under a sky red with waving flags
on ground red with spilled blood

she holds her crying child
with the hope of a new mother
and the desperation of the wall
against her back
she will not give in
she will not give in

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Tohoku
(for TR)

there’s a woman on this bus
who looks just like you did
when we met twenty years ago

it’s hard to look at her
without losing my grip on this world
arriving back in Tohoku

where we ate soba noodles
until one of our friends threw up
trying to prove his strength

you were so beautiful
not like a painting
on the wall of a museum

forcing the viewer
to stand behind the rope
or risk damaging its brittle surface

no, you were like a field
of pale cherry blossoms
under the sun of northern Japan

inviting us all closer with a warm smile
as we orbited like honey bees
entranced and attentive

two decades later
the young woman on this bus
could almost be your daughter

for the last few hours
every time she’s smiled
I’ve been back there again

remembering that first taste of freedom
those cold winter days
in the mountains of Tohoku

Listen to this poem using the player above.

I wrote this tonight at Cornelia Street Cafe. The three lines in quotation marks are by David Budbill, from his book Moment to Moment.

/ / /

passing notes

nothing is more beautiful
than Portuguese at night
and everything sounds better
in your fickle accent

I’m drinking peppermint tea
watching you watch the band
like you’re memorizing them

I started this poem
on five separate pages
almost didn’t write it at all

but I’m listening to Judevine
the mountain sage, who wrote:
“Never be deliberately obscure.
Life is difficult enough!
Don’t add to the confusion.”

so while this may not be clear
it’s as clear as I can make it
at least without more tea, less sleep
or a longer walk to the train

I traveled back to Albany, NY, this weekend to do a reading in nearby Voorheesville, a small town full of poets. The audio of my reading is available to stream or download using the player above.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

/ / /

hardhat

they’re digging up the street outside my building
putting something in or maybe taking something out
one of the workers left his hardhat on my stoop
I snuck it inside while he was at lunch
now I wear it while I write poems or update Twitter
my desk has become a construction site where I build new selves
assembling them from all the might-have-beens
putting cardboard cutouts of myself on every street corner

this one never left home / stayed in the Berkshires
this one convinced Mom and Dad to send him away
on this corner is a me who graduated from college
he’s a music teacher in a small town in Massachusetts
this one got while the getting was good
drove west with the top down and the right companion

even though it’s me who builds them
I’ve never figured out which cut of the scissors
which angle, greatened or lessened, makes the difference
allows me to split into a new being
to take on the trappings of a new life
I’m worried that my scissors are getting dull

I wrote this brief poem tonight while listening to Darius Jones play at iBeam in Brooklyn. The photo is also from tonight’s show.

/ / /

Click for a larger version.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

I went to see Amy Cervini sing at the 55 Bar in New York tonight. She was joined by many guests, including vocalist Nicky Shrire. I got the idea for this poem from their duet performance.

/ / /

a cappella
(for Nicky Shrire & Amy Cervini)

she waits at the bar
till her name is called

then sings her way to the edge
of the cliff / kept from falling

by the sound of four hands clapping
two voices wrapped like vines

a cappella — from the Italian meaning
“in the manner of the church”

surely this is prayer / sent up
through the tin ceiling

to where she imagines
her ancestors to be

Listen to this poem using the player above.

/ / /

crossing Canal

we crossed Canal Street like royalty
me holding a scribbled poem
you holding me, stopping the cars
the newspaper boy had a beautiful voice
like an angel crossing a highwire
when we reached the sidewalk
we kissed
and I thought:
this is why we have sidewalks

I used to post readings along with all my poems. It’s a little harder to do that with the gear I have in NYC, but given the response to my readings in this interview, I’ve decided to start doing it again. So you can listen to this poem via the player above, and read the text below.

/ / /

avalanche

it didn’t start out that way
I promise
at first there was just you
walking down 7th Avenue South
readjusting to a body in rebellion
I knew it was you from a block away
because you’d warned me
not knowing me well
so all at once we became real
and then
and then there was more
jazz clubs and cafes
apartments full of foreign adventurers
free flowers from the maitre d’
your ever-present smile
and then
and then there was even more than that
slowly
very slowly
like the first ice pellets
foretelling the avalanche
I looked up to see the wall of snow
crashing down around me
I raised my arms
let it fall

I just watched Before Sunrise for the first time since I saw it in the theater in 1995. I haven’t really been able to watch it since then. I also watched Before Sunset for the first time. This is poem is a true story brought back to the surface by those two films.

I wanted to be Ethan Hawke

I walked out of the movie theater / that night in 1995 / holding in my insides / like I’d been gut-shot

the drive back to my apartment / took the rest of my life / trying to write the perfect line / that would make you leave Rochester / and join me in Tucson

I couldn’t see the road with your face / clouding my eyes / I drove like the old man / I was afraid I’d become without you

why did you call me every day? / what didn’t I say / that would have made you love me?

my little red journal couldn’t hold it all / couldn’t trap the longing / free me from that parking lot / where you held my hands in yours / said “we’ll see each other before you go, won’t we?”

my last night in town was in your bedroom / on your bed (an unfortunate preposition) / a cat between us, our hands touching

you were all I wanted / but I still had to leave, had to get out / had to find my own ground

I came to rest in the desert / but 3,000 miles of driving / didn’t do a damn thing to put you behind me

eventually the phone calls stopped / the longing subsided / but not the feeling of missed opportunity

there is no train platform on which to meet in six months / no sweet reunion movie nine years later

just one of those connections that didn’t quite take / a lost chance to make a new universe

everything is a poem

the baby on the N train who laughs
        as her mother tickles her feet
the way the stop-motion animator looks down
        at her hands / talks about puppets
the little bit of “residual foam” that floats
        on top of a hot cup of espresso
the ring of condensation like a holy circle
        of protection beneath my glass
the young Brooklyn barista beaming
        as she tells me how smart her sister is
the way my friend rests one slender arm
        behind her head / smiles across the space between us
the cat putting his front paws on my leg
        so he can rub his head against my freshly shaved chin
the moment when I step out of the subway station
        and remember that it’s a sunny day in New York City
the part where Stevie’s voice jumps an octave and the song
        goes up a whole step and I can’t feel the ground

the worst kind of poem

is the one you write while
trying hard to hide its meaning
like bringing a leopard
to a dinner party
and acting surprised
as the other guests hurriedly clear a space
staring as you feed it a canape
murmuring to one another
while it licks itself

you can pass it off as a joke
pretend the leopard is an
expensive handbag, maybe
eventually though, you can’t hide
the growls, the knocking over of glassware
the sharp intake of breath as
the cat makes eye contact with a partygoer

finally you’ll be forced to admit
that yes
it’s a leopard
and no
we won’t be leaving

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

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

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

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

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

Based on a true story.

orgasm

“Mary never had an orgasm –
God put that baby in her stomach,”
says the subway preacher
while the high schoolers giggle

he warns of sex with a lady
two ladies four ladies
seven ladies twenty ladies
then his imagination runs dry
and his stop comes

the car is as silent
as subway cars ever get
then something sets the girls
to giggling again
“That’s New York,” one of them says

I’ll meet you at St. Mary’s Street
you said on that September Saturday
when summer returned
from Brooklyn to Brookline

there were bluebells at Hall’s Pond
a single egret awaiting nirvana
surely you know by now that yes
they were beautiful and no
they couldn’t compare

we saw an improbable flower bed
planted in a pothole
we watched the moon over the Fens
spotted Venus above the Emerald Necklace
but that’s not what I mean

that’s not what I mean at all

These both feel too tortured and overwrought. I spent a good portion of the afternoon and evening writing several poems just like these. Guess I’m feeling a bit date-deprived today. Ah well. Here’s the evidence of the afternoon. I’m posting them mostly to keep my recent streak going.

/ / /

chainsaw

I’ve been in this restaurant four times
twice with imaginary friends
twice by myself
I think the server is lovely
and in a million years wouldn’t say anything
I told a guy today he was charming
to me that’s like juggling chainsaws
except that given enough time
I could probably learn to keep the blades spinning
a friend said I need a lot of casual sex
she couldn’t know that’s the one thing
I can’t take casually
where does that leave me?
eating Buddha’s Noodle Soup
in a restaurant with a lovely server
waiting to catch the next whirling saw
before it tears me in two

/ / /

the whole 90 minutes

after a while all the beauty
all the noise, all the weird
become background radiation
afterimage of the big bang
that raised these buildings
so high above this island
when she brings my tea
I smile the way I think
I’m supposed to
but I’ve never known
how charm works
I’ve been spoiled
by too many movies
where it’s easy
the people who should meet
meet
even if takes
the whole 90 minutes

I went to see guitarist Gilad Hekselman at Jazz Standard tonight and wrote this poem before he started playing. I feel like many of my poems are as much diary entries or small pieces of reportage as they are poems. Or maybe they are those things and also poems.

/ / /

a man without a bank card will do almost anything

when I went to pay the cafe bill
I realized I’d lost my bank card

now I’m at the Standard with 13 dollars
enough for an iced tea and a bucket of fries

it’s what I would’ve ordered anyway
but now I’ll be broke at the end
in that I’ve-got-plenty-of-nuthin way

meanwhile I’m mired in a conversation
I’d give anything to not be having
but my mom raised me to stick with it
so I’m stickin’

everyone around me is speaking Japanese
I eavesdrop when my tablemate takes a break

one table over is a sax player with a US Census bag
sitting by accident next to a fellow Census worker
they’re telling Census jokes, which are the best

I’m holding a seat for my English friend
a surprise gift from the rain god
to whom I did not even think to pray

there’s a Swiss philosopher eating steak tartare
I say I think I know him, he says he thinks he knows me
we’re both wrong

the seat across from me remains empty

I wrote this after many hours of traveling.

the river under Rockefeller Center

the river under Rockefeller Center runs beside the third rail / garbage floats along it / rats bathe or swim or drown

on the D train a man with a voice like Miles Davis sings Stevie Wonder’s “Too High” / says, “Everything has got to work out right”

the woman next to me is reading the same book you were reading / which makes me suspect her instantly

I feel self-conscious when I write on the train / as if I’m doing it so people will see me writing

but when the words are ready to come out it’s lucky if I have a pen and paper to catch them before a song lyric drives them from my head /

to float down the river under Rockefeller Center

I wrote this poem tonight while listening to pianist Matt Mitchell and drummer Ches Smith at Korzo.

From Matt Mitchell & Ches Smith at Korzo – 6 Sept 2011

danger

you were dangerous and angry
red wrists and flashes of light
in the Hungarian bar
with $5 goulash

After careful study, I’ve decided that my life
needs an extra day and a cloning device
or a world without rock stars
and foreign bars

the reds are oppressive
walls, neon Czechvar sign
you
the red star in the center of the universe

I know this sounds like a love poem
but it isn’t
I don’t write those anymore
I’ve lost the knack

instead I take black-and-white photos
try to preserve these red nights
with the ink from a cheap Bic
and the rush of blood in my veins

Tucson

we fade
we stop
we start anew

cresting the Tucson Mountains
the city like a field of diamonds
reflected in the October stars

call me with fuzzy guitars
and women of uncertain origin
tattoo my heart on your forearm
remember me in the honey-colored morning

secret

to hide my true identity
I travel from restaurant to club
with a series of beautiful women
of wildly varying heights

there was a time — not long ago –
when even this would have seemed impossible
even now I’m surprised by our reflection
in the windows along the street

sometimes, in a Christopher Street bar,
over an improbable cup of tea
you find exactly what you need
or who

I could spend hours watching you laugh

waiting for the bus while the pigeons
look for scraps on the blacktop

also in line for this bus is a woman
with red feathers braided into her black hair

– I swear it’s true –

and another young woman next to me
has spent the better part of an hour
carefully inspecting every inch of her right leg

these New York summers make everyone a little loopy

back home we’d be dancing to reels
played by old men with a little bit of red
left in their beards

but in this city we each carry our own melody
hoping that someone else knows the tune

I wrote this tonight while listening to Amy Cervini at The 55 Bar in NYC. I wrote a poem the last time I saw Amy Cervini, too. This one is a combination of autobiography (although less so than in many of my poems) and things seen and overheard.

carbon copy

thunder rolls through the West Village
the bar patrons pull their glasses closer
basement captives of the summer rain

I learned recently that all I need to do
is find a carbon copy of you
somewhere on the streets of New York

the only time anyone calls is when I’m here
bartender hands me the phone
greasy with city dust and sweat

I put it to my ear but nothing’s there
not the ocean
or the harsh sound of your laughter

if Johnny were here he’d know what to do
black is the new black
he’s always in style

but it’s just me
this whistling guitar player
the rain on the street outside

I would wait for you even if I had soy sauce
even with the perfectly crafted maki rolls
sitting right there in front of me, seductively

I would wait while you finished telling me
about that time with him, when you knew
the light in the tunnel was a train

I would wait until you said what needed saying
until you’d convinced yourself it was over
that some bridges can be crossed in only one direction

then I would fill your cup with hot green tea
pour the soy sauce into your little clay dish
leave just the right amount of silence to let you know

barefoot on the N train

barefoot man polishing a smartphone
talks incessantly on the N train
until the woman across the car
screams “shut up! stop talking!”
everyone who had been pretending to sleep
is looking now, eyes drawn toward the end of the car
where the argument erupts into life
like summer thunder and is gone as quickly
the storm contained in this hot box beneath Brooklyn

/ / /

talk 2 me in 1s & 0s
peer @ me w/ your LED eyes
tell me you love me w/ a stream of ticker tape
reach out & touch me

Exhale

he’s wearing a white Oxford
when his jacket arms pull up
I can see his shirt cuffs are dirty

now I look closer — frayed ends of his pants
shoes with worn soles and scuffed sides
a small cigarette burn on one lapel
hand under his handle-less briefcase

is he going home after yet another interview?
does he have a wife somewhere in Brooklyn
who thinks he’s at work?
or was she washed away, too, in the flash flood
of changing fortunes?

I wait because I know it’s coming
and it does:
the long exhale
the one he can’t control
the air forced out of his body
as if his own lungs are trying to
mercifully asphyxiate him

for a second I wonder whether he’ll breathe in again
he does
the train passes Chambers Street

I went tonight to hear Petr Cancura‘s Lonesome Quartet with Petr on banjo and saxophone, Kirk Knuffke on cornet, Garth Stevenson on bass and Tyshawn Sorey on drums. I was very impressed by the music. Petr told a story about a trip he made that inspired this poem. I took a few bit of his story, changed the details and imagined the rest.

From Petr Cancura's Lonesome Quartet at Cornelia Street Cafe (7/7/11)

soil

there’s a farm outside Memphis where a hog is roasting / and the old brass-band leader’s kinfolk will welcome you to the party / even if your accent don’t quite fit

this is soil country / rooted / each one can trace from the branch all the way into the earth / you can’t play brass band music if your feet don’t touch the ground

in the old farmhouse is an even older hutch / in a cabinet in the hutch is an ancient Bible / full of blood and memory / the names are a hymn / a holy call into hallowed ground

out by the roasting pit / they’ve cleared a space for dancing / little girls standing on their fathers’ feet / young boys shoved into the arms of cousins / “come now, child, dance with her – it won’t kill you”

the old brass-band leader is right where he’s been all these years / waving his mail-order baton / cajoling music from a bunch of coots as old / as the dirt they’re standing on

later / when the kids are asleep and the band is done / the oldest of the men takes out a banjo / plucks the stars alight

there’s a farm outside Memphis / where all are welcome / this is soil country / rooted

I saw Stephan Crump‘s Rosetta Trio at Barbes in Brooklyn last month. This poem was inspired by a few phrases Stephan used while introducing the tunes. That’s his bass in the photo below.

how the west was lost

meanwhile back in the bar…
two guitar players tell road stories
sweat gliding down their faces
hands plucking phantom strings

their whiskey long drunk
their beer glasses dry
eyes unfocused by drink and memory
as the bar slowly empties

finally it’s just the bartender
wiping down the wood
half listening to the tales
he’s heard so many times

a sawdust cowboy
disappears over a distant hill
the rumble of hoofbeats
rolling through this August valley

This poem is dedicated to the trumpeter Eli Asher. In addition to being an inspiring musician, he came up with the phrase “Gumbo Sutra,” which inspired the rest of the poem. I started this weeks ago and finally finished it tonight. Thanks, Eli.

From Buddha In The Modern World (Ongoing Photo Essay)

The Buddha of New Orleans
(for Eli Asher)

The Buddha of New Orleans
plays trumpet on the weekends
with three guys from the Legion hall
and two oyster house waiters
who moonlight as dancers.

Clap hands, here comes Gautama!
He’s lost weight and looks more like
the Tibetan image than the Chinese version.
He swings like a gate, too.
(gate, gate, paragate, parasamgate)

He plays with time, shifting the beat.
No two members of the band
are ever in exactly the same place.
The dancers ignore them, whirling
around the stage in time to the low buzz
from the PA system.

After the gig, the band goes back to his house.
He cooks for them,
recites the Gumbo Sutra.
This has been going on for years
and they still never understand a word he says.

But something about
the way he says it
– so calm, so caring –
makes them smile over their bowls
of rice and beans.

I went to Jazz Standard tonight to see Ben Allison’s band with Michael Blake, Steve Cardenas, Jason Lindner and Rudy Royston. I wrote this poem during the show, inspired by things in the club, phrases I heard, song titles and my owned fevered imagination. The first quotation in the poem was said from the stage by Michael Blake.

Photo by jazzmix.org

new york basement blues

1.
grab your jazz hat
meet me in the bent-note basement
Jackie’s back of the bar
sloshing the occasional beer
on the tongue-colored tile

the Dutch couple near the stage
look trapped, unsure
told, perhaps, that this would be

something else

(close your eyes, dear,
and think of Holland)

2.
there was a monk on San Juan Hill
who could tell your fortune
in two bars of three

he could stop on a dime:
and give you nonsense and change

“you and me baby” he’d say
“let’s start our own country
and nobody will come”

(he had a sign in his window / it said:
MY BOSS IS KAREN CARPENTER)

3.
later, as the sleepy-eyed theater boys
slowly regain their senses
a sidewalk prophet in plaid and denim
hands us a poem by William Blake

on which he’s drawn a caricature
of Barrack Obama
hugging Margaret Thatcher

“April is the cruelest month” he says
“except for February, which I’ve never liked”

This poem was inspired by seeing vocalist Fay Victor and bassist Dominic Lash perform together tonight at the Evolving Music Series. Here’s an album of photos from the event, which also included Theo Bleckmann & Jay Clayton, Charles Gayle’s Forgiveness and more.

fireflies

my mouth is full of fireflies
a spring night jack-o-lantern
with glowing cheeks
my honeyed ears hum
with the soft songs of bees
and their dancing maps
there are dogs and bears and tragic lovers
haunting the April sky
a night woodsman thunks his axe into a stump
I hear a grumbling ostinato in the trees
the song of an unseen singer
calling me homeward toward my little room
filled floor to ceiling with jars of fireflies
damp with saliva

I wrote this tonight at Bar Next Door while listening to James Shipp, Mike LaValle, Rogerio Boccato and Jo Lawry.

song without words

there is a way you sing
this song without words
that reminds me of
water touching sand

the bell falls to the ground
like a baby’s eyes opening

your fingers tap the chorro
I taste warm maté

what if we never get past
this slowly revolving door?

never get to the sunshine lands
where children play big drums
and dance without fear?

a fundamental understanding of the nature of the universe

you went to hug me
I shook your hand
like a key that wouldn’t turn

there’s a fake sky painted
on the ceiling of this restaurant
much bluer than the real one
held at bay by thick windows
and sitar music

everyone in here is eating alone
as if that’s okay

one of the waitresses is singing

beside the door is a box
filled with slips of paper
imparting bits of wisdom

as if life can be changed
by words on a piece of paper

(which, of course, it can)

on the piano in your living room
you played me a song that your father loved
I sat on the floor and listened

I wrote this last night at the Village Vanguard.

/ / /

it takes a certain kind of person

to pull off that many non-ironic flowers on the front of her shirt

to wear his hair in a ponytail in defiance of age stereotypes

to don red Chuck Taylors more appropriate for a man with fewer responsibilities

to absorb the needy stares of this late-night basement

to not believe that the knot in your intestines was tied by her careless fingers

to assume this verse is free when the truth is I paid for it

to sit beneath all those photographs but not know your history

to step over, to walk around, to pretend not to notice, to look away

to sit and scribble in the dark while the man in front of the curtain spills his blood

to run the tips of your fingers across the soft skin just below your throat, knowing everyone is looking

to drink that drink like you never raised your hand to another human being

to remember what I wore that night but only because you didn’t like it

to play those particular notes in that particular order

to not know that the other half of this arrangement is that you are supposed to look over here

This is a found poem. A man sat across from me on the subway and said these words exactly in this order. I just set them as a poem. I love New York City.

lipstick is poison

a woman’s pocketbook is a transmitter
she wants to leave the fucking book at your house

and then a government missile
will blow up your house

women are government agents
secret agent man

after 10,000 years, rebel command
will be able to beat back the government

proton torpedoes
the world belongs to us

whoever possesses proton torpedoes
will be able to rule the world with an iron first

women are government agents
secret agent man

I saw Amy Cervini‘s “Jazz Country” band at 55 Bar tonight. Amy was joined by Steve Cardenas, Anat Cohen and Ike Sturm. The music was gorgeous and this poem was inspired by the first song they played. I won’t name the song so you won’t have the melody and lyrics running through your head when you read the poem. And I shouldn’t have to point out, but I will, that although this is written in the first person, this is not a love poem from me to the happily married Ms. Cervini. Cool? Cool. There have been enough jazz feuds without me starting another! Anyway, enjoy the poem and go see this band.

From Amy Cervini's "Jazz Country" & Victor Prieto Trio

no fences
(for Amy Cervini)

if you had a horse
and I had a horse
we could ride horses
through our crooked village
with our clarinets
making all the children laugh
you in your circled dress
me in whatever a nearsighted fool
wears on a horse
no steeplechase for us
because our village has no fences
just streets that meet at oblique angles
and plenty of space for the angels
of our better nature to sally forth
with the sun on their wings
and clear water in their canteens
there may not be mountains
but we can see the tall buildings
and they’ll do

This post exists purely so that Dave Bonta will Smorgasblog it and create a loop.

in spite of clouds

you can either kiss me
or give me a consolation prize
I’m hoping you’ll choose the former
because my spare room is full
of trinkets from the could-have-beens

there may not be sunshine
but we can dance like we had
long shadows to join us
spinning on the street corner
while the dogwalkers give us space

do you remember all the times
I didn’t tell you anything?
chose not to say what I thought
and hid my true feelings
in a cloud of jokes?

does reading Shakespeare
in this coffee shop
make me a hipster?
does writing this poem
make it worse?

my friends don’t believe me
when I tell them I ride trains
with famous people
or ascend in elevators
with TV comedians

but I like to think
I’d make up better lies
if my goal were to impress
I know for certain I’d be
kissing more people in my stories

that’s what I miss most
the kisses
real ones you can feel
through your whole body
like the roller coaster dropping

these clouds can’t last forever
the sun will be all the more brilliant
for our missing it
my shadow and I are waiting
to dance with you

I took a crazy series of trains and buses from Manhattan to Brooklyn tonight to see a solo set by bassist John Hébert at Sycamore, a tiny basement music spot at 1118 Cortelyou Road. As it turned out, there was also a solo set by drummer Billy Mintz. I wrote this piece during Hébert’s set.

From John Hébert & Billy Mintz at Sycamore

sycamore

I am not Bob Dylan
you are not Bob Dylan’s girlfriend

here in this Brooklyn basement
we are all making eye contact
over the bulging body of the bass
filling this quaint cave with mumbled rhetoric

as if on cue all the women
on the bench close their eyes
right legs crossing left legs
as a single bead of sweat
drops from the bassist’s nose
to the threadbare rug

you know who you are
all the men have sensitive beards
you know who you are

I planted a sycamore in the backyard
so we could sit beneath it and remember

I planted a willow in the front yard
so we could sit beneath it and regret

Yesterday I saw Chris Washburne and SYOTOS at El Museo del Barrio. I wrote this during the gig. Some of the poem is based on the performance and things that were played and said during it, and other lines are paraphrased from the brilliant book The Mambo Kings Play Songs Of Love by Oscar Hijuelos. The last two lines are instructions given to me back when I played latin jazz for a living.

barrio music

this is sacred ground
church on Saturday
we should be dancing
led down the aisle by El Rey
like a victory parade
hips swaying, laughing
we are praying to the holy trinity
the mambo, the rumba
and the cha cha cha
James Brown, Machito and Schoenberg
this isn’t music for sitting down
when you play the clave, play the clave
and clap like your mama’s making tortillas

I’m very taken with the concept of “pashal.” Here’s another poem exploring that idea.

Photo source

again, pashal

one after another
they approach the edge
of the subway platform
and look down the tunnel
for signs of a train

as if the looking
makes the train come faster

following the same impulse
each person in turn
pushes the elevator button
even when the arrow is lit

but the leaf flows downstream
taken by chance and the current
and the sidewalk leads everywhere
if you let it

A friend taught me the Filipino word “pashal,” which, as I understand it, means to stroll or walk around without a particular plan and with the hope of discovering something. I think that’s a beautiful idea.

pashal

that the chain wouldn’t come unstuck
was a little gift, forcing us
to slow down in Grand Army Plaza
where we otherwise wouldn’t have been

a breakdancer offered to marry you
but I don’t think you accepted
and we were stuck on the one street corner
in all of New York without a Starbucks

it’s easy to forget how gorgeous it is here
then the sunshine repaints the city
and everyone smiles, remembering childhood
or their first love or a walk last summer

another friend tells me to slow down
but this isn’t a city of leisure
and everyone knows springtime
is for falling in love

even with a broken wheel
a bicycle is a beautiful thing
and sometimes what’s implied by the painting
is even better than the painting itself

Hard as it is to believe, I went to my first show at the Village Vanguard in New York tonight. The band was Terrell Stafford, Bruce Barth, Tim Warfield, Peter Washington and Dana Hall. I wrote this in the dark during the set. I wanted it to seem a bit noirish, thus “the blond.” I’m not sure if that’s OK.

Friday night at the Vanguard

there’s something about the way the blond
is tilting her head, laying it back
against the cushions like she’s dreaming

– stop —

now we’re in church and a “go ‘head”
comes from stage left
where the trumpeter sits snapping his fingers
in what would be a cliche in other circumstances

the blond leans forward
she has a cleft in her chin like an action hero
on her it’s intriguing

– can I get an “amen”? –

it’s a ballad again
she leans over so far you’d think
she had a stomach ache, but she’s smiling

I don’t write much rhymed or metered poetry. The critical among you may say that this poem doesn’t change that fact. But the first two lines came to me right before sleep last night so I turned the light back on and wrote the rest.

leaves

and when we’d finished reading Whitman on that hill
we should have turned to one another like lovers will
I should have kissed you there and then or you kissed me
the way that Whitman wrote of love – effortlessly
and if I’d know then on that hill what I know now
I would have silenced all your doubts with my lips’ vow

I recently visited the excellent Museum of Chinese in America in New York. This poem was partly inspired by that experience.

warm bodies

we are happy to have warm bodies
to throw at their guns
Chinese, black, dynasty, diaspora
anyone but our own sons

what happened to thirty paces
the crack of the pistol
as the mist rose off the dawn ground

when did we start loading the chambers
with soft flesh
gunpowder burning the skin
as we launch the children of the poor
at the children of the poor

praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
and if he gives you any trouble
shoot the fucker

it’s a hard equation
but that’s how we do math these days
with mercenary sensibility and a lead-pipe cruelty
not even John Cusack can make charming

the baby in the bassinet
has dynamite in her mouth
the fuse trails off under a door marked
RESTRICTED

in the morning you find a card in your mailbox:
“Manzanar — Wish You Were Here!”
the accompanying cartoon
helps our boys track you down
by the way you walk and the slant of your eyes

hive dance

he asks her to dance
she says no
so he hovers at the edge
of the buzzing crowd
one more bee awaiting
the location of a flower

I went to Small’s in the Village tonight to see Bruce Barth. I ran into several people I knew and some I’d never met in person. The whole experience felt like a poem, so it seemed only fitting to make it one.

One of my favorite movies is An American In Paris. At the beginning of the film, Gene Kelly does some narration and mentions that he went to Paris because the great artists before him had gone there. I feel that way about New York and poetry, and also New York and jazz. I didn’t change any names in this poem to protect the innocent, either.

9=3+3+3, or, A Night At Small’s

on the train, this:
if you don’t change direction,
you may end up where you’re headed

huh

the sage is sleeping soundly
slumped over against the pole
if this were Japan, someone
would wake him at his stop

or more likely he would awaken
as if by magic
some shared ethnic telepathy
connecting all Japanese to their destination

but this is New York
no such enlightenment
is forthcoming

Louis Armstrong is smiling
in argyle socks
a black Buddha before bebop

Rebecca has blood-red nails
that look jet-dark in this dim light
her double-jointed pinky bent on the bar
her name is alliterative, as is the artist’s
who guesses it

and, for that matter, the piano player’s
(and his title)

the Japanese photographer says
he is ready to go home
twenty-four years is long enough

meanwhile the boy from Pasadena gets the seal
of approval from the boy from Brooklyn
it’s official: he’s a New Yorker now

the mirror next to the piano is reflected in another mirror
looked at from the right angle
there are an infinite number of piano players
(writing Hamlet?)
and an unending row of archers

people clap when they’re supposed to
like a ritual prayer that’s lost its meaning
in the observance

even the photographers look like musicians
and the temperamental cat is not a euphemism

/ / /

whale song

she goes each day to the ocean
to look for the whales, she says
that’s why she stays
despite the pull of the opposite shore
the all but inescapable magnet
tugging on the keys of her saxophone

of a morning she is crouched there
at the boundary, eyes narrowed
searching for shadows on the surface
a spray of spout-water above the waves

one day she knows she will hear them singing
on that day she’ll put lips to reed
feel the air move from her lungs
and she’ll join them in their song

I’m coming over and when I get there
I want you to kiss me
she didn’t say

let’s get in the car and drive west
until we run out of gas
he didn’t tell her

the thing is, I don’t really
love you anymore
she should have admitted

I’ve found the love of my life
and it isn’t you
he should have confessed

we had some good years
some fun times
she could have remembered

I didn’t realize this is what they meant
by the word “passion”
he could have realized

will you come with me right now
and never look back?
she didn’t ask

I’ll never leave your side
as long as we live
he didn’t answer

trudge trudge trudge
slip trudge trudge trudge slip trudge:
Albany blizzard

(I finally missed a day, so I’m one stone behind on my 365-straight-days plan. Ah well…)

/ / /

late night Sun Ra fills my empty apartment
with the whirling sound of Saturn

On Sunday I’m moving from Albany, NY, to New York City. Today I started saying goodbye to my friends with a few little gatherings. Although Albany was the site of probably the darkest year or two of my life, I did meet some incredible people here who I expect I’ll be friends with for a long, long time.

/ / /

and so we say our goodbyes

1.
over avacado tortas and enchiladas
iced tea and fresh salsa
we talk about work or lack thereof
share a laugh about the end of the world
tell stories about food poisoning
and a raffle at a Stones concert

2.
later there is a poetry reading
out-of-town poets with an in-town crowd
afterward we have a conversation
that is like the ones we’ve had before
in exactly the right way
Nina Simone is singing – we have to stop talking
when she gets to the Dylan tune
for the record, I am not Bob Dylan

3.
tomorrow there will be Japanese food
and the glow that always comes from it
but even this is not goodbye
who really has to say goodbye anymore?
I’m not heading west in a wagon
never to be seen again
I’m as close as ten numbers
as near as the computer screen
as far away as the edge of the universe

more and more empty space
in my apartment, I mean

no two are alike
as they fall from the winter sky:
poisoned birds

my voice echoes
through the empty house:
leaving in winter

woke up with a sore throat
dreading a cold during moving time
:slept on cold floor

these digital relationships

I turn on the screen to see your smile
sometimes a smile is what I need most

and I know yours will be there
constant in a way few things are these days

as tired as I am of digital relationships
I’m making an exception in your case

I don’t know what you sound like or how
you make the air move when you walk into a room

but you were kind to me once
when I had no expectation of kindness

all my muscles are tired
I lifted the mattress onto the car by myself
buoyed by unexpected springlike warmth

I stepped on the ice
it turned out to be a deep, shoe-soaking puddle
(this is and is not a metaphor)

heavy boxes shift
my footing loose on icy driveway
:keeping my balance

I’m drinking lukewarm chamomile tea
– I have no idea what chamomile is –
listening to an American musician performing in Paris
when she asks the crowd if they’re having a good time
they say “yes” not “oui”

flooded sidewalks
walking on the glistening asphalt:
February thaw

how it ends:
a winter breeze stirs the curtains
no one is coming

walking in the street
cars passing too closely:
icy sidewalks

ice on the driveway
inside, spicy noodles
and the warmth of conversation

the heater’s fan clicks off
the room is a field of silence
I am imagining Mt. Fuji
I am becoming a mountain

This haiku is largely an inside joke. Sorry about that.

/ / /

warm miso soup
cold soba & the taste of avocado
way better than Chipotle (TM)

is that weird?

there is precisely one-tenth of one percent less gravity
under my feet in your proximity

the sun slants through my window differently
when you’re here

I can juggle four tennis balls if you’re watching
none if you’re not

my dog falls asleep standing up — and smiling –
when you pet him

I can get two radio stations from Malaysia on my toaster oven
when you’re in my kitchen

all my refrigerator magnets gather together and form a heart
when you put the tofu back in my fridge

I have been known to speak dead languages
just to hear you laugh

come to think of it, it IS sorta weird

universal love poem #7b

I (verb) you more than
an (adjective) (noun)

when you’re (proximity)
my (noun) (adverbly) (verbs)

before you (verbed)
I used to think (hypothesis)

now I realize the truth:
(cliché)

biting breeze
blows the curtains in and out
I breathe

sharp winter sun
the snow is alive
with squirrels

There are many difficulties associated with meditation. Also, I guess this technically is a senryu rather than a haiku, the difference being that haiku have an element of nature and senryu are usually about human nature.

/ / /

count the breaths … four
think of kissing you
…one

icy rain
soaring Decemberists:
I’m moving on

/ / /

Citalopram
fills the broken tub
in my head

Listen to this poem using the player above.

/ / /

morning erotica

an affection for the pleasures of the flesh
not the receiving, which has its own charms

but the giving: a gentle caress, a tentative kiss
the soft flick of the tongue on sensitive skin

the winter sun comes through my bedroom window
I awaken slowly, savor the lingering taste of you

Listen to these poems using the player above.

/ / /

salty dream
awaken to the chime
…sit

/ / /

deoxy-
ribonucleic acid:
me