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Category: My poems

POEM: cotton candy

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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

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POEM: sorry, Larry

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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

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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.

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POEM: natsukashii

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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

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POEM: hiccup

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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)

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POEM: poems for foolish hearts

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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

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POEM: cafe conversation

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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

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POEM: noir

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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

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POEM: Thanksgiving Day

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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

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POEM: Elwood P. Dowd

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Elwood P. Dowd

these days
everyone is
beautiful

I may not
have a
rabbit

but I’m trying
to make
friends

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POEM: Cale on the 6

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

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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

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POEM: the king’s clothes

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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.

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the king’s clothes

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

on his furrowed brow
the image of a lotus

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POEM: for Andrea and Ken

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Sometimes you meet people who immediately become family.

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for Andrea and Ken

my socked feet
on your couch

noodles
with burglar’s thigh

this table
feels like home

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POEM: Rivera’s The Uprising

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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

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POEM: Tohoku

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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

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POEM: passing notes

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

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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

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