poet, interviewer, musician, traveler
Poem #1 for the November Poem-A-Day challenge.
It means “cooked sushi roll”
maki yaki
(mine are raw, though)
terrible house music on the speakers
(but I’m wearing headphones to block it out)
the concrete block hangs above, suspended by a thread
(mom says not to worry, it won’t fall)
wasabi shoots through my sinuses
(stirs an already agitated brain)
my nerves are raw
(maki yaki)
Happy Birthday to one of my heroes. Lenny Bruce was born this day in 1925. Here are two poems inspired by Lenny: “A Photograph Of Lenny” and “Gerry & Lenny”.
2 CommentsAnother video poem inspired by the work of Dave Bonta.
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tornado watch
the restaurant sign is lying
on its side on the sidewalk
we have no hatches to batten
in this city of weak wind
but the world is changing
and you don’t need a weatherman
to know the wind is stronger
I went backward on my bike today
with the wind like a wide-open palm
pushing again my chest
Inspired by Dave Bonta’s one-minute video poem, here’s my first-ever attempt at mixing video and poetry.
Here’s the text of the poem:
sideways world
I ride my bicycle in a sideways world
keeping my balance while the cars pass overhead
and the cars path beneath
I wear a helmet in case I should fall
though I don’t know in which direction
gravity would take me
I am the only inhabitant of this sideways world
everyone else appears to be walking
at a right angle to me
we don’t make eye contact
I asked you once to go for a ride with me
you tried, but you couldn’t balance
and so I ride by myself in this sideways world
looking for a sideways companion to join me
what we choose to remember
in the park on the hill
trees shade the monuments
to the dead, the killed
mottled sunlight hits the plumes
of a fountain, the breeze
carries mist down the hill
toward the center of the city
a man with twitching legs
smokes pot on a bench
in front of the courthouse
do this in memory of me
there’s a rainbow on the east side
of the fountain
I’m glad I don’t live here
but you don’t answer
it’s the second song of the night
(the vibraphonist is playing a solo)
when I get that feeling in my stomach
the one you get as the roller coaster
goes over the top of the first hill
right before it picks up speed
but after it’s too late to get off
I can usually lose myself in music
but tonight I’m already lost
the quieter the band plays
the easier it is for me to hear the rush
of blood through my veins
this place is called the Whisper Room
because you can whisper on one side
and someone can hear you on the other
so I whisper your name
and wait
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unlock your heart
no,
that’s not what I mean
don’t lock it
in the first place
or if you must, give me the key
I’ll keep it somewhere safe
maybe with the ring
my grandfather gave me
when you decide you’re ready
to come out from under the bed
I’ll give you back the key
trust me,
it will still fit
don’t let the squeaky hinges
throw you off
once the blood starts pumping normally
it’ll be just like new,
maybe better
single-digit hours
while saxophonists play the final set
bartenders announce last call
bleary new mothers quiet newborns with the breast
truckers chatter on radios to stay awake
I write in the moments before sleep
when desire overpowers caution
and what is true holds sway over what is real
I write at the threshold of “tonight” and “this morning”
realizing the new day without relinquishing the old
living in the in-between time, when all things are possible
Listen to this song using the player above.
Fun with science
You are my superheated ball of gas
in the center of the solar system
My only superheated ball of gas
in the center of the solar system
You cause endorphins to be released
into my brain
When the refractive properties of water in the air
are overcome by cloud cover
You’ll never know, dear, how much certain
visual, olfactory and auditory cues
suggest you as a suitable mate
Please don’t remove my superheated ball of gas
in the center of the solar system
Listen to this poem using the player above.
bullet train
faster than a decision
more powerful than a kiss
able to leap tall buildings
in a moment of clarity
the bullet train flies down the track
you can’t jump off
but you can choose a different station
Listen to this poem using the player above.
Estonia
at this time of year
the sun can’t make up its mind
holding off the night like a spurned lover
confused bees circle the petals
of flowers that reach for the dusky sky
pining for light
this is the season when all lovers tremble
when every park bench is an altar
and hearts are laid bare for the taking
Listen to this poem using the player above.
Another poem written on the Tennessee River in Chattanooga.
Water Song
how many lives have been lived along this water?
what was here before?
before the condos
before the artificial park
before the riverboats full of tourists
before riverfront revitalization
before speeding cars on one bridge
and Sunday strollers on the other
how many souls has this water collected?
what songs have been sung on its banks?
and if it’s quiet enough, can you still hear them?
Listen to this poem using the player above.
On the Tennessee River
woke up in a Manhattan hi-rise
going to bed a Tennessee riverboat
neither of them is home
home is a carousel horse
I can never quite grab on to
not these lightning strikes
or the rain on this river
home was our shared bed
the sound of little boys wrestling
it’s so quiet now, so very quiet
there are bridges on both sides of me
and I have nowhere to go on either one
Listen to this poem using the player above.
Rough Boys
“Remember when Frankie got taken out?”
Three shop stewards are sitting along a marble wall
on Park Ave near Grand Central
talking about the old days.
“You wouldn’t fuck with Nicky Torres.”
They remember heated words in cramped offices,
big men with tattoos from the war
who didn’t take shit off anyone,
no matter how good a college you went to.
“As soon as they found out you were with Nicky,
their whole attitude changed.”
Men who drove in to the office in nice cars
felt their collars tighten and the sweat on their foreheads
as strap-hanging third-generation laborers
let them know how things stood.
“Nicky would raise his hand
and everybody would stop working
until he put it back down. He got what he wanted.”
There aren’t many places left where men talk about the union
like it was an unpredictable beast.
Like it prowled the shop floor, muscles rippling
under taut skin. Like its hot breath
could cause the boss to think twice before mouthing off.
When Frankie got taken out,
it was because Nicky Torres told the plant manager,
“Either this asshole goes
or you’re not gonna have much to ship out on them trucks.”
Frankie left, and Nicky put his hand down.