poet, interviewer, musician, traveler
napkin poem
how many times in how many bars
on how many napkins
text bleeding into the cheap paper
better suited for soaking up
condensation and mistakes
the band is playing “A Felicidade”
we are talking but not talking
text and subtext and saxophone
trying to avoid monkey clapping
loose lips sink ships
/ / /
28 February 2014
Zola, State College
Never heard “A Felicidade”? Enjoy.
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last night’s dishes
little bits of garlic on a dinner plate
from the naan that came warm and pliable
out of the toaster oven atop the fridge
(eaten following the oldest question)
in this bowl, crusted remnants of refried beans
served on blue corn chips with “fake cheese”
while the cats prowled the living room
and we talked about old lovers
two bottles of Pennsylvania rootbeer
over which we discussed the future
before realizing there was no percentage in it
decided instead to focus on the present
I feel them in my hands, smooth and wet
the delicious hint of pain from the hot water
I hold them up in fading light to check they’re clean
then place each one carefully on the rack to dry
/ / /
28 February 2014
Oak Street
pages
I opened the file
it contained two pages
of quotes from journalists
gushing about you
but not one from me
I have been neatly
edited out of your biography
struck from the record
of your accomplishments
left behind by the parade
of your admirers
where once you eagerly
sought my counsel
now your people
send group messages
on which my name
is one among many
it’s only fair
I’ve excised you as well
opened up my biography
removed the pages
on which you’re mentioned
leaving a slight fraying
on the binding, nothing more
/ / /
25 February 2014
Oak Street
this is why
because it was clear immediately
(you know where)
because Billy said so
because kissing you
because I have all this rice & a wok
& some seaweed & lots of chopsticks
because there are some forces no one can stop,
especially when no one is trying
because I keep trying to write this poem
(I’m worried it was better in my head)
because kissing you
because once I didn’t; I turned back
at the airport gate & I still regret it
because everyone deserves this
(even if not everyone thinks so)
because once you came up behind me
as I cooked, encircled me in your arms
because of the lingering scent on my sheets
because kissing you
/ / /
24 February 2014
State College
next
When she told him,
the world enfolded them
until their bodies and breath
consumed the space;
in that moment he knew
the happiness of uncertainty,
felt the raw beauty of possibility,
tasted a sweetness at the back
of his throat like a faint
trace of honey, felt doubt
evaporate like a puddle
in the summer sun:
if this was the path,
he would walk it.
/ / /
17 February 2014
State College
morning poem
I awoke with your name
on my lips;
these days being awake
goes hand in hand
with thinking of you.
/ / /
14 February 2014
Oak Street
on listening to Bach’s six suites for unaccompanied cello
out in the living room
Rostropovich is playing
Bach’s cello suites
he takes the first
at breakneck tempo
the familiar intervals
whipping by as if heard
from the window
of a passing automobile
while in the bedroom
two bodies entwine
smiling laughing sighing
heat pours off the radiator
onto already sweaty skin
as the cello comes
to the climactic end
of the 1st suite
in the silence her yes
slips out softly
his low note of passion
as they begin again
masked by the climbing vine
growing from the cello
at the start of the 2nd suite
/ / /
11 February 2014
Oak Street
subway seen
sidelong glances from
underhood
at the man scratching
lottery tickets
passing over the Manhattan Bridge
through sudden sunshine
startled, he catches himself
looks away
soon enough the pull of fortune
draws his gaze again
narrowed eyes, furrowed brow
winning or losing by proxy
until at the next stop
the man rises
says two words to the woman
across the aisle
takes his maybe fortune with him
out the door
/ / /
9 February 2014
Manhattan
salt
you were sitting on the couch
I was on the floor in front of you
you were wearing that skirt
your bare legs pressing against my back
I knew all I had to do was turn
and you would accept me
the salty taste of you on my tongue
your fingers twisted in my hair
I would pull you toward me
you would arch your spine
head thrown back against the couch
eyes closed, breath deepening
stifling your moans with one arm
because there were people sleeping
in the next room …
but instead I sat there, facing the wall
feeling your knees against
my shoulder blades
/ / /
Written in 2010, I think, in Albany, NY.
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weather report
yesterday it was fifty degrees
today there is snow on the ground
yesterday we stepped wide around mud puddles
today I’ll step gingerly around ice
yesterday in the quiet I could hear rain drops
today the world is muffled in its white blanket
yesterday we walked without jackets
today I’ll walk with a scarf
yesterday I moved with the easy bounce of spring
today I’m reminded of the slower pace of winter
yesterday it was fifty degrees
today there is snow on the ground
yesterday I loved you
today I do, too
/ / /
3 February 2014
Oak Street
he talks to his lover about music
I’ve heard this song before but I never noticed this bit here where they sing your name. No, seriously. I’ll play it again. Listen. Right after this line. I’m sure they sing your name. Just once, with some tasty harmony, too. I didn’t notice it the first fifteen times I listened to it today. But for some reason, on the sixteenth time through, it hit me. I had to go back several times to be sure. But I’m sure now. Every time it gets to that part, even if I’m doing something else, I get these little goosebumps on my arms and my cheeks get red. It’s the funniest thing. I can’t believe you don’t hear it. It’s so clear. Maybe if you got closer to the speakers. Come right down here on the floor. Close your eyes. Now just focus on the music. OK? I’m going to start the song. Wait. Wait. Almost there. Right … now. Did you catch it? It’s the coolest thing. Anyway, I just wanted to play that for you. I wanted you to know that I find you in the everyday places. In the small things. You pop up unexpectedly like a patch of wildflowers seen quickly along the highway. A brief flash of color and then it’s gone and I’m not even sure I saw it but it stays with me.
/ / /
30 January 2014
Oak Street
biology
I will never write
a more beautiful poem
than the one created
by your DNA
/ / /
29 January 2014
Oak Street
late-day sun
I’m at my desk as a long Monday crawls to a close. Ahead of me is a walk down unshoveled sidewalks through rapidly falling mercury. Paul Simon is singing about distant trains. Suddenly, the late-day sun bursts through the front door. It fills the room, makes every surface sparkle like a gem stone. The sight of it takes my breath away. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks then spread through my chest, down my arms to the tips of my fingers. Even though I’m at work, wearing an unwanted uniform, this moment is perfect. I smile wide, thankful for this most beautiful star and the way it sets my world alight.
/ / /
27 January 2014
Oak Street
release
I slowly open my hands
feel its wings flutter
against my warm palms
see the colors emerge
from between my fingers
until it is free, flying
lifting off into the sky
leaving a single feather
on the cuff of my sleeve
I put the feather on my desk
so I can look at it later
when I need to remember
/ / /
27 January 2014
State College, PA