Category: My poems

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

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

St. Mary’s Street

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

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