morning meditation

letting the idea of you rise
from my stomach into my chest
like the memory of fields
carried on the steam
from a cup of tea

Buddha dances on the wall
to the beat of the candle flame
until he’s stopped for a moment
by a frozen flash of lightning
this morning I awoke!

with a desperate need to poop
had to wait for two other people
to use the bathroom
hopping from foot to foot
such is life

21 May 2012
Brooklyn NY

we were mountains

the hailstones fell
we didn’t feel them
we gave a home to eagles
who nested on our peaks
offered refuge to shaggy goats
who butted horns as
they leapt across our crags
we made the dawn a wonder
gave shape to twilight
and passed into memory
in our time

17 May 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

The title of this poem comes from a tune by Daryl Shawn, pictured at left in the photo above during a performance with Todd Reynolds on 17 May 2012 at The Firehouse Space in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. More photos from the show.

the common room
for LGD

the mountain was deserted
that’s why he’d come here
to this trail he loved to hike
letting the dog run on ahead

when they found his body
the dog was beside him
waiting for him to awaken
so they could both go home

the common room lies empty
his friends won’t go in it
because it reminds them
of what they have in common

14 May 2012
Brooklyn NY

sense of humor

long parade of strollers
no child has the same
hair color as the woman
pushing the stroller
(all of the latter are texting
or listening with earbuds)

a boy has a rock in his shoe
then in the other shoe
one bench later, his twin sister
develops the same ailment

there’s an uneaten bagel
in a brown paper bag
on the time-worn bench

just when the sun gets too hot
to comfortably bear
a long, thick layer of clouds
passes between it and the
bench-sitters below

then, with a timing
that seems intentional
the warmth returns right when
the bench-sitters put on
their sweatshirts and jackets

funny

10 May 2012
Brooklyn NY

earthquake

in the morning, butterflies
using your white sweatshirt
as landing pad and launch site
while all the good dogs
pulled their owners through the park

then it was Coney Island
empire of the perfectly janky
you’re barefoot in the icy water
dressed like a color-blind superhero
BROOKLYN announced on your ass

by the time we reached Thai Tony’s
the ground had begun to tremble
shaking our glasses of iced tea
but it passed before it was even a story
leaving nothing but the feeling

that we might not be welcome
on this earth after all

6 May 2012
Brooklyn, NY

Click the image for a larger version.

Mayday

oh to be
in love
on a rock
in a pond
in Central Park
on a foggy
first of May

1 May 2012
Central Park
New York City

a Brooklyn fable

every short sharp shock is a gunshot in Brooklyn
even though it’s more likely, here in Windsor Terrace
to be a workman putting the finishing touches
on the new back deck of a banker’s brownstone
or two bloggers fencing their organic garden
but the back-of-the-brain memory of urban sounds
learned through a lifetime of movies and rumors
defeats the more recent research of the eyes
isn’t it dangerous there, ask the wide-eyed Ohioans
and we want to say yes to them, confirm their belief
because we came here for the danger, the adventure
not for fresh tofu and chai tea and strollers in the park
you’re more likely to be struck by a $5,000 bicycle
than by the steel-jacketed bullet with your name on it
but don’t worry, you can make up a scary story in the ER
and all your friends will believe it, because they need to

30 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April. This is the final poem. I missed a few days, but I came up with some keepers, too. A fun month.

practice apocalypse

little boy
camo pants
Spidey socks
feathery hair
dirty nails
red cheeks
mixed teeth
front gap
deer shirt
legs crossed
on bed
killing zombies

27 April 2012
State College PA

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

a
do-
zen
tur-
tles
lined
up
on
a
fall-
en
log

of course
you’d stop
to count them

26 April 2012
on a bus
from NYC to PA

hand movements / end of the universe

them, yesterday afternoon. You hadn’t exactly gone out of your
hand movements
end of the universe

hand movements
It was to be called “The Ends of the Earth.”
them, yesterday afternoon. You hadn’t exactly gone out of your
Carwardine
hand movements
hand movements
It was to be called “The Ends of the Earth.”
known
end of the universe
remembered being angry, angry about something that
said, “You can’t win, you know. You

guide to the guide
usually claimed
It was to be called “The Ends of the Earth.”
dressed
end of the universe

them, yesterday afternoon. You hadn’t exactly gone out of your
out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the

them, yesterday afternoon. You hadn’t exactly gone out of your
hand movements
end of the universe

guide to the guide
a trilogy in four parts
Life, the
a trilogy in four parts
Janx Spirit, for my head will fly, my
you?

25 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April. This poem was made using one of Charles Bernstein’s experiments: Acrostic chance: Pick a book at random and use title as acrostic key phrase. For each letter of key phrase go to page number in book that corresponds (a=1, z=26) and copy as first line of poem from the first word that begins with that letter to end of line or sentence. Continue through all key letters, leaving stanza breaks to mark each new key word.

Brooklyn cowboy (based on a true story)

he saunters in to the bagel shop
leather duster nearly reaching the floor
sunglasses on despite the overcast day
boot heels clocking along the tiles
satchel slung across his chest
sunken mouth looking short on teeth
no six-shooter, which is just as well
the cops in this bagel shop don’t know
how lines work and they don’t have
senses of humor, either
he moves like a mountain
counts out his change like he’s looking
for a coin to give the ferryman
one cup of black coffee later
he gathers his things to leave
there’s a yellowed sheet of paper
poking out the top of his satchel
as the door closes behind him
everyone in the cafe sighs in relief
glad to not be the name or the face
on the cowboy’s tattered poster

23 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

waiting for it to rain

Saturday night / we’re listening to Romain Collin / waiting for it to rain / after a day in the sunshine / from which we returned different colors / one surprisingly tan / the other lobster red / but just on the front of the thighs and inside of the calves / as if by design

now it’s nighttime / knitting time / stitching it together into something we can slip into / a comfortable garment / one that will last / the air smells like an oncoming storm / we were promised thunder / we’re holding / Mother Nature / to her word /

laughter in the courtyard below / the warm spring-summer night brings out / neighbors I had imagined lost / stacks of unclaimed mail in the foyer / like a message in a bottle / spat out by the angry ocean / the one we can just glimpse from our roof

someone is grilling / someone is smoking a cigarette / lingering incense from morning meditation / Mr. Parke said / when you smell something / tiny particles of it enter your nose / enter you / you are what you smell / though / has never become a popular axiom / not like Carl’s star stuff

it smells like rain / but it’s not just the air out there that is pregnant / tense / the air in the house is also heavy with unspoken meaning / we’ve barricaded the door with pillows / and stuffed animals from our childhoods / to keep out the bogeyman / to keep us safe

21 April 2012
Brooklyn

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

15th Street
for ________

every time I see you
I have to write a poem
about the sound
of your uncertain accent
or the look
in your classic
mascaraed eyes
like an It Girl
from a silent movie
you’re wobbling
slightly
on silly shoes
shoes you wore
just for this occasion
(but not for me)
we overtipped the server
whispered
snarky stories
you told me your
guilty truths
so I told you mine
you gave me dried
mango and chocolate
and as we walked
to the train
a crazy moon stared
down at us
from the end
of 15th Street

7 April 2012
Manhattan

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April. I missed yesterday, so this is my second poem for today. I wrote it earlier this month but didn’t post it.

where I’m loving Brooklyn

“I’m having one of those days
where I’m loving Brooklyn so much”
we were walking down 5th Ave
when she said it, bellies full of sushi
noses full of blooming magnolias

(we thought the plant on our
window sill was a lilac but it wasn’t)

“and you” she added, holding my arm
the way you see in picture books
of the early 1900s, when the women
carried parasols & the men wore boaters
& white shoes & striped jackets

(it turned out to be a hyacinth)

these days Brooklyn feels like an ocean
our room an island floating in it
the bed our lean-to under the palm trees
where we write messages on the pages of books
slip them into bottles / cast them into the sea

(it didn’t matter to us at all)

20 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

sage, neem and wool

the bundle of sage in our shower
                                                is blooming

it smells like the Sonora Desert

home to so many walks
            in the hair-dryer-in-the-face heat of summer
            in the silky-aired warmth of winter

that smell is memory:
            two decades
            of expectations
            bends in the road
            slow erosion

on the window sill is a bar of neem tulsi soap from India
            it, too, is fading
                  translucent
                          nothing to pin
                                    one’s hopes on

the tree outside our window is on fire
            we sit in the breeze
            listen to the sirens
            the snuffle of dogs
                        in the courtyard below
            you knit a sweater
            I knit these words into
                        something to wrap
                        around my shoulders

17 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

uh thin philm of heir

wee taik sew much four grantid
ekspekt to c the wurld uh serten weigh
butt sumtymes wee knead to steppe
awf the beetin path & trie two sea
frum uhnuther’s purrspektiv
watt maykes hir akt that weigh?
watt maykes him thinc thoze thawts?
watt maykes enny won uv uss
beehayv the weigh wee due?
inn the finull analisis wee r awl
on thiss ltl rok twogether
hell’d on the serfis buy uh forse
wee doughnt kompreehen’d
kereening threw the I-see voyd
with nuthing butt eech uther
& uh thin philm of heir

16 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

two turtles on a rock

a robin watching, feet just beneath the surface
of this little pond in a corner of Prospect Park
there’s a fallen-down half-sunken wooden fence
overgrown with vines / a newer metal fence
keeps everyone this close to nature but no closer
the pond has a bend in it but it’s deceptive –
the water ends right there / no adventure awaits
at least not the kind we associate with rivers
now the robin is bathing, chest puffed out in hubris
until a third, smaller turtle swims up behind
convinces the bird there’s no shame in sunbathing
when I look up from writing that line, it’s gone

15 April 2012
Prospect Park
Brooklyn

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

throw down your sock, Allen:
an East Village bestiary

1.
sit on the church steps, she says
see that building across the street?
that’s where Ginsberg lived
I don’t cry, but I could
just think of the poets who stood
on this East Village sidewalk,
yelling up to the fourth floor
for Allen to throw down the key
wrapped in an old sock

2.
a few blocks away is another spot
where Ginsberg lived, home
of the famous fire escape photo
of Jack Kerouac, who wrote most
of The Subterraneans here
imagine Jack and Allen talking
late into the night
about poetry and the Buddha
and Neal, always Neal

3.
the tallest building in the East Village
was once the castle of the King
of the Stooges, son of Ypsilanti
who enjoyed taking off his shirt
and whose anarchic anthem now serves
as background music for Carnival Cruise ads
the only reasons he’s not spinning in his grave are
(a) he’s not dead and (b) all that money
presumably

4.
DETOUR: A bird. A real live bird.

5.
there’s no sign at all
that Frank O’Hara lived here
at 441 E. 9th St.
one of the principals of the
New York School
Frank taught us to write
with the bare nerve endings
pressed against the page

6.
this Mexican restaurant?
Auden lived upstairs, perusing
his copy of The Times of London
and bemoaning the recent
liberation theology at St. Mark’s
Trotsky worked in the basement
years earlier, until the distant sound
of palace gunshots sent him back
to the New Russia

7.
there’s a Buddha in the piercing shop
where Anne Waldman used to live
she the protector and chronicler
of what was started here
somewhere under the floor
is a time capsule
with a single hit of acid
waiting to expand the consciousness
of a construction worker or perhaps
the building superintendent

8.
if you’re hungry, there’s a Chipotle
on the spot where Andy Warhol presented
The Velvet Underground
lost your appetite? I’m not surprised

9.
when he was still called LeRoi Jones
he lived here with his wife and two kids
on the day Malcolm stopped breathing
he decided not to live here anymore
(his wife and two kids still did)

10.
the yuppies are eight deep
outside what used to be The Tin Palace
but the Tin Emperor has left
taking his jester with him
no more saxophones filling the night
while the patrons crunch shells underfoot
now, aspiring actors in waist-down aprons
and crisp white Oxfords hover over
sidewalk tables full of hedge fund managers
you can keep your tired and your poor
thank you very much

11.
finally there’s a nice young man
strumming a guitar in the empty
backroom bar
where Uncle Walt’s Lite Brite face
watches over the poets
in a blue-red benediction
I contain multitudes of light bulbs
says Uncle Walt

14 April 2012
the East Village
Manhattan

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April. I wrote this poem after taking the East Village Poetry Walk, which I highly recommend. For more about the Tin Palace (mentioned in #10), here’s my interview with its founder, Paul Pines.

after the show

you can fit
quite a lot
into a walk
down Canal Street
minutes of snark
the big reveal
the expected answer
a parting embrace
but fewer kisses
than were allowed
by previous texts
you win some
you lose some
some you replay
the A comes
one goes uptown
one to Brooklyn
     the end

14 April 2012
Brooklyn, NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

the rain had been threatening all day
making good on its promise briefly at the bus stop
you leaned back against the brick wall on 10th Ave
        (“bobby & gabby 4ever”)
so I could kiss you / slide my hands
through your hair from the nape of your neck
to the top of your head
“you should kiss her,” you said, because
you’re the kind of person who would say that
I was more than content in that moment
to drink in the blue of your eyes
as the soft rain wetted your lips

12 April 2012
Manhattan

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

here is what is here

wooden end table used as a temporary desk:
gold buddha statue, full lotus position
(due to longstanding flirtation with Buddhism)
microsoft wireless mouse and keyboard
(despite a general distaste for that company)
logitech speaker system with subwoofer
(because I couldn’t stand not hearing bass)
system 76 laptop computer running ubuntu
(keeping up the very thin veneer of geekdom)
small moleskin notebook under one corner
(the laptop is partly melted and the fan scrapes)
compaq 17-inch flat-screen monitor
(also, the screen of the laptop doesn’t really work)
lamp, probably from target
(I think every lamp I own is from target)

top shelf of short bookshelf for added desk space:
poem “500 Prospect Ave” in 5×8 frame
(given to these folks before I ever thought of moving in)
hp photosmart c3180 all-in-one printer
(it came with every mac a bunch of years back)
the life and times of archy and mehitabel
(have given it as a gift, finally reading it myself)
the essential rumi translated by coleman barks
(because it seems like something I should like)
marantz pmd 660 solid state recorder
(has captured hundreds of voices over the years)
sony mdr-zx100 stereo headphones
(the ones you can buy right near the checkout at best buy)

window overlooking back courtyard:
cilantro plant in a pot on the window sill
(for cooking yummy things with friends and lovers)
used paper towel under the cilantro pot
(which is surprising in this particular apartment)
some sort of pouring utensil, maybe for fondue
(but really it could be for alchemy for all I know)

unemployed 38-year old poet, 30 pounds overweight:
navy blue sweatshirt with “vegan” on the front
(result of a fairly recent conversion of diet)
navy blue sweatpants from tufts university
(result of a fairly recent conversion of dating status)
plaid boxers seen through hole in sweatpants
(result of the aforementioned hole, which is in the crotch)
seven-dollar slippers from Pearl River in SoHo
(because I not-so-secretly long for Japan)

11 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

I posted this poem earlier today. It was a free-writing exercise — exactly what came into my head, no editing after the fact. As I was explaining the references to two friends, I thought it might be fun to make an annotated version of the poem for everyone to read. I’ve numbered the lines and put the notes at the bottom. Enjoy!

/ / /

skreeks & skronks

plectrum scraping against metal wire [1]
string theory: indeterminate length [2]
you take two bodies & mash their atoms [3]
collisions yielding energy / heat / light [4]
what if I gave you this & you kept it? [5]
one note in the bass arpeggio above [6]
we assimilate Italian terms because we [7]
have no adequate words to describe this [8]
aural multiverse through which we’re flying [9]
add drums bring to boil reduce heat simmer [10]
there are saved onions in the fridge [11]
they’ve accepted Jesus into their cores [12]
peeled away the layers of freewill [13]
acknowledged their eventual dicing in service [14]
of the Lord & his supper table [15]
bring me the head of Robert Fripp & [16]
five white people who can clap on two & four [17]
then lay me down in sheets of sound [18]
John Coltrane has my blood on his hands [19]
from when he slipped & I caught him [20]
he hovers above the bed in judgment [21]
waiting for his ascension when he’ll be [22]
seated at the right hand of Earl “Fatha” Hines [23]
“if all you can play are squeaks & honks [24]
then you’re not really free” [25]

10 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

NOTES (not all the lines have notes)

[1] This is a reference to some sounds coming from Terrence McManus’s Brooklyn EP, which I was listening to while writing this poem.

[2] A reference to this video.

[3] A revision of a line from the Paul Simon song “Hearts & Bones” combined with the science-y bit from the previous line.

[4] The previous line made me think of the Large Hadron Collider.

[6] Another description of the music from note [1].

[7] e.g. “arpeggio”

[10] The record changed to a duo album with Terrence McManus and drummer Gerry Hemingway called Below The Surface Of.

[11] Factually true, then “saved” becomes a play on words for converting to Christianity.

[16-17] These two lines came to me months ago but I never used them. They popped into my head while I was writing this poem. Robert Fripp is the founder and leader of the band King Crimson, among other things. The “two & four” thing is a classic jibe at white folks who are stereotypically more likely to clap on the first and third beats of a measure. If memory serves, Fripp once edited some performances in the studio to make drummer Bill Bruford’s playing sound more in 4/4 time than Bruford had played it.

[18] A revision of a line from Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” (“lay me down in sheets of linen”). When I got to “sheets of” I thought of John Coltrane’s “sheets of sound”.

[19-20] A mounted poster of Coltrane is hanging in my bedroom. When I hung it, I dropped it and cut my hand while catching it. I bled on the poster and have never cleaned off the blood stain.

[22] Ascension is an album by John Coltrane.

[23] “seated at the right hand of the father” is a line from the Apostles’ Creed, which I can still stay from memory despite not having been to a Catholic mass since the early 80s. Earl “Fatha” Hines was a jazz pianist.

[24-25] This is a paraphrase of something said by drummer Barry Altschul when I interviewed him earlier this year.

skreeks & skronks

plectrum scraping against metal wire
string theory: indeterminate length
you take two bodies & mash their atoms
collisions yielding energy / heat / light
what if I gave you this & you kept it?
one note in the bass arpeggio above
we assimilate Italian terms because we
have no adequate words to describe this
aural multiverse through which we’re flying
add drums bring to boil reduce heat simmer
there are saved onions in the fridge
they’ve accepted Jesus into their cores
peeled away the layers of freewill
acknowledged their eventual dicing in service
of the Lord & his supper table
bring me the head of Robert Fripp &
five white people who can clap on two & four
then lay me down in sheets of sound
John Coltrane has my blood on his hands
from when he slipped & I caught him
he hovers above the bed in judgment
waiting for his ascension when he’ll be
seated at the right hand of Earl “Fatha” Hines
“if all you can play are squeaks & honks
then you’re not really free”

10 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April. This poem is a piece of free writing, written while listening to Brooklyn EP by Terrence McManus and Below The Surface Of by Terrence McManus and Gerry Hemingway.

which I should be for you.

I celebrate myself and,
I am assuming that you are you expect,
each atomille, which belongs to me if a good is for you.

In my heart, and,
by inviting Loafe loafen helppoudessani. . . . Summer viewing spear grass.

/ / /

I celebrate myself and,
I expected that you are you are you waiting for,
each atomille, which belongs to me if my good for you.

Through and through, and,
by inviting Loafen vetelehtinyt helppoudessani. . . . Summer keihäsruohon Watch

/ / /

I celebrate myself and,
I would have expected that you are you are you pending,
each atomille hyväni, which belongs to me if you.

And, as profoundly
Vetelehtineelle vetelehtinytille helppoudessani. . . . Summer keihäsruohon investigation

/ / /

I celebrate myself and,
I I I I would have expected that you are you are you,
each atomille hyväni which I should be for you.

And deeply
Vetelehtineellenä vetelehtinytillenä helppoudessani. . . . Summer keihäsruohon Research

9 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April. To make this poem, I entered the first two stanzas of the 1855 edition of Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” into freetranslation.com and translated them into Finnish, then back into English, then back into Finnish, until there were six iterations of each language. Then I used the first, second, third and sixth translations to create this version. This is based on one of Charles Bernstein’s suggested experiments. Here’s Whitman’s original text:

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease . . . . observing a spear of summer grass.

monkey mind

“Matt, this is Chris.”
“Chris, this is Danni. With an ‘i.’”
“Danni, this is Nicole.”
“I think we met at the book club.”
“David, this is Stacy.”
“Hi, these are my parents. They’re in
        from Sweden.”
“We’re here for 20 days.”
“C.C., there are no eggs over there.”
“Someone go tell C.C. that all the eggs
        are over here.”
“Honey, we hid them so we know
        where they are.”
“What time are you guys starting
        your Easter egg hunt?
        Because we were going to start
        around 11 and we don’t want
        to get in your way.”
“I think we just lost some of our eggs
        to the competition.”
“Kids, go to the doggie park. The
        doggie park. Go to the
        doggie park.”
“I think that guy is meditating.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea.”

8 April 2012
Prospect Park
Brooklyn, NY

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April. I meditated in Prospect Park today in what started as an empty field and became an Easter egg hunt.

From Buddha In The Modern World (Ongoing Photo Essay)

summer squash and ginger

on the cushion
noticing the breath
waiting for the same bubble
to rise to the surface
of the still water

it breaks open
scenting the air with
summer squash and ginger
sends ripples across
the pond

it comes
as sure as moonrise
as regular as the eventide
fills me with longing
unsettles me

so I return
to noticing the breath
let the next bubble burst
without fragrance
without sound

7 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

fatherhood

the phone just isn’t enough
too many frequencies are lost
between the vocal chords
and the inner ear
cast by satellites and towers
into the atmosphere or outer space
bloodless plastic against the ear
is no substitute for a small warm palm
wrapped up in my fingers
or a kamikaze jump with a feral yell
from the couch onto my back
living in the magical future
it’s easy to think that a computer screen
and a tiny camera are the same as contact
but we’re not on different planets
just in different states
and the bus ride gets longer each time

6 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April. I debated posting this one because of the content, but it’s where I’m at today.

for Lorine Niedecker

I imagine you at a card table
on a screened-in porch
vinyl tablecloth
with a bright flower pattern
glowing in the afternoon light
of a Wisconsin spring

you’re holding a sheaf
of carefully typed poems
harvested from years of
unvoiced imaginings
your hands shake slightly
second ring catching the light

in front of you on the table
is a Philips dictation machine
tiny wheels turning
as you intone the words
your reedy voice
imparting a gentle dignity

at this point almost no one
has heard of you
two books published decades apart
one privately, one only in Scotland
your connection to American letters
a series of epistles to Zukofsky

soon a stroke will take you
silencing your voice
just as it’s becoming audible
but enough have heard to ensure
your words will survive beyond
this Wisconsin afternoon

for now it’s enough
to sit on this warm porch
read your poems about Monticello
remember Polly and Darwin
this paean to place
your lasting gift to the world

5 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April. This poem was inspired by the Niedecker episode of Essential American Poets.

Naruto Ramen, Brooklyn

where the cooks speak a mixture
of Japanese and Spanish
“Irashaimase!” they call
as people come in off 5th Ave
hang their coats and backpacks
on the wall hooks
those who know sit at the bar
because the bar is a sacred place
where devotion is paid
to the sprout, the noodle,
the bean pod, the tofu square,
the white pepper garnish
the sweat on the brow
the cold Sapporo or Asahi
the cheap balsa wood hashi
that you break at the end
scraping the sticks against
one another to remove splinters
order the extra noodles because
they’re generous with the broth
slurp loud enough to pay respect
to the hachimaki-sporting men
flinging pots on the six-burner stove
like Barishnikovs with ladles
for some, the nostalgia is as thick
as the steam rising off the broth pots
it’s a bit of a surprise to leave
and find yourself in Brooklyn
not in any of a thousand thousand shops
just like this one, tucked around a corner
of a narrow street, in every town in Japan

4 April 2012
Brooklyn, NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

Prospect Park Lake

a silent fleet paddles by
streaming out in a v
behind the leader

a rat pokes its nose
out of the reeds
it’s waiting for us to pass
so it can run for the roots
of a nearby oak tree

as if on loan from
the set designer
there is, of course, a swan

it looks majestic but sounds
like a duck with a kazoo
lodged in its throat
the sound is shocking
a burp from Princess Grace

the requisite moon glows
behind a low, lush layer of cloud
silvering the waters

and in a moment of madness
I get down on both knees
take your hands in mine
lean in for a kiss
ask you not to marry me

3 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April. This is the second poem I posted today. I wasn’t too fond of the first one.

The Entire Sweep Of Human History, Reduced For Easy Consumption To One Tiny Facet Of Evolutionary Biology, Made Easily Digestible By The Removal Of Context And Detail, Served In A White Clam Sauce Over Linguine Noodles, With A Glass Of Red Wine, All For $17.50

this is
the story
of trillions
of sperm
and the
eggs who
loved them

3 April 2012
Brooklyn, NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

like

garlic and Earth Balance over warm rotini

the key changes in Stevie’s “Summer Soft”

flowers on the window sill (our window sill)

Roland Orzabal’s guitar solo on
            ”Everybody Wants To Rule The World”

miso ramen with white pepper and sprouts
            eaten at the bar where everyone is sweating

sembe and a cold bottle of green tea

Levon Helm’s drum crescendo on the final verse of
            ”The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down”
            from The Last Waltz

when my kids get tired at night and forget
            they’re too cool to hug me

the chorus of “Go All The Way” by the Raspberries
            heard while watching someone stuff artisanal Twinkies
            in a Park Slope bakery (I know, I know)

in bed, playing Chrono Trigger, one of us for the first time
            and the other, well, not for the first time

at the table (taken from 24 Packard) talking politics
            while Paul Robeson sings “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”

sitting on the cushion with the rain falling outside
            and the Japanese temple incense filling the room

when you said, “I want you in my life for a very long time”

2 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

Cape Town

singing Cape Town into Brooklyn
through a pair of speakers made in China
music written in the Berkshires
by a madhouse veteran of the solo circuit
green tea in the last surviving mug
from the latest in a long line of relocations
the new room has an altar in it
which would surprise everyone and no one
the air smells of incense and lilacs
the bed is a nest of pillows and mattresses
if you draw the Buddha, said the monk,
be sure to always draw him smiling sweetly
that way he’ll make the children happy

1 April 2012
Brooklyn, NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

intersections

1.
this morning I rode my bike
through the intersection of
49th Street and 7th Ave in Brooklyn
remembered last summer
stopped at that same corner
waiting to make a left
meathead in a muscle car
whips out around a turning truck
flies toward me going 50 in a 30
I’m trapped in the amber moment
watching the grill of his car
make its appointment
with the front wheel of my bike
and then, inevitably, with my
bones and muscles and nerves
and skin and blood
but it turns out the meathead
is a skillful idiot
taps his brakes just enough
to swerve at the last second
leaving me shaking in the intersection
as close as I’ve ever come to death

2.
summer 2001, Rochester, New York
I’m in the car giving my grandparents
a tour of our new neighborhood
a mother and her young daughter
are biking through an intersection
when a truck speeds past
knocks the little one into the air
she crunches onto the pavement
I’m dialing 911 as I run
I tell her shocked mother
the ambulance is on the way
ask what else I can do
she gives me her house keys
asks me to get her young son
from their house up the block
I bring him back, his hand in mine
the ambulance has arrived
my grandparents and I drive away
years later I invite a friend
to write about a cycling experience
for my new website
she writes about the time in 2001
when her daughter was struck by a car
while riding through an intersection
turns out my friend is that woman
from all those years ago
neither of us had realized it
everyone is okay
and we all still ride bikes

29 March 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

The incidents in question:

tea on the windowsill
(for Kate)

every night before bed
she puts the kettle on
waits for the water to boil
pours herself a cup of tea
carries it into the bedroom
leaves it on the sill to cool
in the morning he takes the cup
pours the untasted tea into the sink
thinks of her
smiles

kitchen poem

everyone’s laughing in the kitchen
old friends from Boston newly arrived
lovers whose hands touch while they
chop onions, peel cucumbers

it’s sunny in a way it hasn’t been in months
everyone feels it like a warm embrace
a happy bunch of astronauts on a rock
millions of miles from the source of the light

earlier today there was a rooftop concert
a saxophonist playing gospel music
across the street from the Catholic church
where the sign says to “turn away from sin”

but of course it’s the sin that satisfies
mistakes that make the successes meaningful
the occasional slice of cucumber that falls
to the floor makes the salad taste that much better

From Warm nights, warm days in Brooklyn

I could build a mountain if I had a bunch of dirt

I could build a mountain if I had a bunch of dirt
or a good poem if I had the right words
but the pigeons on the windowsill are distracting me
with their tone poems about statues

play me that song I like, you know the one
I’ll sit on this wobbly bench and wonder
what might have been if you’d been home
rather than away that time I called you

to say that maybe you and I should get together
try to see whether you are the piece that fits
in the space in this puzzle I’m always working on
that no one in my family has ever finished

in Prospect Park I saw a slow old man with a slow old dog
the man was bent toward the ground, smiling
while the dog wagged his tail, his nose nearly touching
the dirt of my someday mountain

/ / /

The title of this poem was originally said in conversation by a friend.

Brooklyn, 1 a.m.

in half-lotus at the end of your bed
with the waxing moon
pouring through the window

without my glasses the world is fuzzy
like a poorly developed photo
that the photographer passes off as art

tonight we stood on the rooftop
Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn
embedded in the black above us

according to the Internet
a night like this happens
once every eight years or so

in my experience, there’s never
been a night quite like this one
whether half-lotus or fetal position

astrology is bullshit
but the planets are still reassuring
up there, judgment suspended

From Myra Melford's Snowy Egret at The Jazz Gallery

Myra’s bubble

like squeezing a bubble
from the top of a shampoo bottle
            slowly
                        slowly
                                    slowly

draw the fingers in toward the palm
            gently
                        gently
                                    gently

waiting for the inevitable burst
air through the dream-thin membrane

it will never happen
            exactly
                        this way
                                    again

it can’t be accurately described
or recreated / can’t be
passed down the line from
mother            to            child

there is no line

there is only this NOW
the only-ever-all bubble
the one that will
            always
                        get away

/ / /

I wrote this poem tonight while listening to (and watching) Myra Melford’s new project, “Snowy Egret,” at The Jazz Gallery in New York. The photo above is of the dancer, Oguri, in front of the band. The music and dance were stunning. I felt lucky to be there and tried to capture the sense of tension and impermanence of the performance in this poem.

song for Oscar

a canary-yellow miner
rummages beneath the Rubin
for the molten core of music

light jumps from the stage
to the keys of his clarinet
then out into the crowd

like the fierce glare
of a headlamp
worn to stave off the dark

it’s a long trip from Tucson
to 17th Street, with a lot of
empty space along the way

miles of desert air filling
his lungs, breathed out
into the room like the

oncoming night that spills
into the bowl of mountains
around The Old Pueblo

there were a million reasons to stay
to become just another uncle
who unpacks his horn at the holidays

to the groans of the young ones
“just sit there while Uncle Oscar
plays a song” she would have said

but in a town with a dried-up river
he learned to swim against the stream
all the way to this refuge on the estuary

now on a Saturday night at Barbes
you’ll hear the brass banda smashing
through the walls, forcing

the dancers to take to the floor
spinning, laughing, weeping
with memory and ecstasy

beneath the black cowboy hat
is a brain that can pick its way
between the cracked stones

at the end of the sidewalk
where the music comes
in splinters and shards

/ / /

I’m a big fan of saxophonist and clarinetist Oscar Noriega and have wanted to write a poem about him for a while. When I learned that he’s from Tucson, a place very dear to me, this is what resulted. I’ve seen him in a number of contexts. The images in this poem come primarily from a recent show with Tim Berne and also from his band Banda Sinaloense de los Muertos.

original black

three men in white
investigating black
all-caps BLACK

digging at:
        the roots
        the rhythms
        the rhymes

blood samples
lined up against
blue-black bodies
strands of DNA
leading to Pryor’s
“original black”

Andrew Lamb
(“The Black Lamb”)
lives behind this poem
his saxophone weeps
for New Orleans
salty tears running
down black cheeks
saliva on cane reed
sweat on his brow

there were two black
kids in my high school
out of twelve hundred
one Cambodian girl, too
(“a boat person”)

“the thing I like about you”
John said to me
“is that you talk
to black people
just like other people”

just.
like.
other.
people.

/ / /

This poem was inspired by two things: going to see Vernon Reid’s Artificial Afrika at Dixon Place last night and then listening to Andrew Lamb’s brilliant album New Orleans Suite again this morning.

safe as houses

seagulls are protesting / in the dawn skies / above the post office

we’re waiting / by the hot dog cart / for our buses to

Baltimore / Pittsburgh / Boston / Washington

it’s cold enough to snow / but the young Australian / is wearing an open / denim jacket / over a t-shirt

trying not to shiver / as he discusses college / with an Asian woman /
who has a British accent

no one knows where to stand / for which bus / so the affable coffee drinker / in his knit cap / says “Boston” / over and over again / to each person who approaches

the ride from Brooklyn / to Manhattan / was stereotypical / of the kind of New York / you don’t really see these days

vomit on the A train / (twice) / the smell of sewage / rising like a physical presence / from the grates in the street

that said / New York is cleaner now / safer / in every sense of the word

you can’t imagine the Velvets / blasting into the world / with this New York / as a launching pad

not when Katy Perry / stands five stories tall / in Times Square / next to an illuminated M&M

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