Skip to content →

Category: NaPoWriMo

POEM: a Brooklyn fable

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.

Leave a Comment

POEM: practice apocalypse

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.

Leave a Comment

POEM: hand movements / end of the universe

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.

Leave a Comment

POEM: Brooklyn cowboy (based on a true story)

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.

Leave a Comment

POEM: waiting for it to rain

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.

Leave a Comment

POEM: 15th Street

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.

Leave a Comment

POEM: where I’m loving Brooklyn

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.

Leave a Comment

POEM: sage, neem and wool

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.

Leave a Comment

POEM: uh thin philm of heir

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.

Leave a Comment

POEM: two turtles on a rock

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.

2 Comments

POEM: throw down your sock, Allen: an East Village bestiary

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.

2 Comments

POEM: after the show

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.

Leave a Comment

POEM: kissing you at the bus stop

kissing you at the bus stop

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.

Leave a Comment

POEM: here is what is here

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.

Leave a Comment

POEM: skreeks & skronks (annotated version)

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.

Leave a Comment