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Tumbleweed

July 22nd, 2010 | in Poems

Tumbleweed

Before I knew who lived there
I went to your door;
The broken bulb, the flickering light,
We kiss near the pink bricks,
Once,
So softly, so briefly,
Was that a kiss?
I am not sure,
For years.

My hands in my pockets,
My pockets full of leaves.
I refuse to knock, my fists will shatter,
They are delicate, I need a cigarette.

I’ll wait here,
At the base of this yellow tree,
The branches covered in invisible birds
That fade into a vermilion sky.

What was your name?
I will try to remember,
I cannot remember.
I remember your face,
But not your name.
Oil puddle eyes.

It starts to rain.
The street smells of vinegar.
I blow hot air into my hands,
It is summertime.

I said; I think I love you.
That was not true.
Why did I say that?
An aesthetic thing;
like trying on new shoes.

Weeds have grown between
The curb and the crosswalk.
Weeds grow everywhere, you said,
Love is like that.
I said, so does rust.

As far as plant metaphors go, I said,
My love is like a tumbleweed.

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The Demographics of Bones

July 21st, 2010 | in Poems, Uncategorized

The Demographics of Bones

“Mister, you are making great progress.”
The doctor mumbles, the wounds mumble,
Small amounts of blood leak onto the sand.
Blood and sand, the sand is tasteless cinnamon,
The dunes form a calomel landscape.
They are beautiful and white.

Under an orange tree, under a long accessible branch,
Seven jaw bones lie like discarded jig-saw blades.
The leaves, curling and withered; he thinks of
The roots deep searching for water beneath
The charred trunk.

“You are a lucky man.”
The doctor stands, his fossilized hands hang,
A cigarette burns slowly between two rust-colored fingers.
The hands are veined and powerful.
They are beautiful and white.

A pack of sharp beasts in dark coats tumble
Over a blue fence into a courtyard
Where a woman is digging
In the arid soil next to an orange tree.
They ask her a few questions. They strip her.
They rape her. They cut off her fingers and leave her.

“Had you been worse off, I would’ve shot you.”
The doctor’s coat is stained, his gaze is tired,
He looks far away through a frayed hole in the tent,
The canvas snaps in the wind.
It is beautiful and white.

A segment of emulsified rope
Lies at the base of the tree
A hipbone, a spine, seven jawbones,
They were incinerated together with their mother,
While he watched, bleeding on his blue porch.

Written in response to the attempted genocide and killings in Kyrgystan.

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First Coat

July 15th, 2010 | in Poems, Uncategorized

First Coat

Apathy. The day dies,
The sun drips red behind the graves,
I sit here, crying simply;
The moon, the birds are spectators to my pain.
1000 birds with 2000 eyes in 3000 branches, invisible.
Listen, ‘don’t visit me again’,
My body is packed winter earth, torn up,
My gaze flutters like a tattered rag.

‘How are you?’ You will ask,
From behind coy shinning eyes,
From behind a steaming cup of coffee,
‘Oh, fine, fine’ I will answer.
You will notice my overcompensation,
I will look at your beautiful wrists
And vanish like a man disappearing
Behind closing elevator doors.

Remember… I had you once.
Your inexperienced kiss, your
Skim milk flesh spilling over white sheets,
You frothing with ruthlessness,
A silver wave, throwing itself against jagged response.

Remember… I had you.
I could have taken one of your lips as I went,
A quick chomp, a slice of tangerine between tooth.

But you were not afraid,
Your eyes distant adjacent stars,
Your pale moon face covered in ash lit
The plaster-colored belly of a tiger
As he stalked from tree to tree, panting,
While his jungle burned.

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Listen

July 14th, 2010 | in Poems, Uncategorized

Listen

Hey you! Yes you! I want answers!
Pause YouTube and look at my face,
Put the cellphone face-up next to your fork,
Take off your RayBan’s for the evening,
Remove an ear-bud so you can hear me:
The ice will still be cold, the liquor will not go bad,
The DJ will continue playing and you’ll still have to be there at 9.
So listen up! I want to be heard!

I know this guy, this friend of mine;
Who runs around with crumbs on his face,
Cups his hands against dirty windows to see,
Thinks it best to hide under pigeon shit bridges
Or in door-jams at midnight.
So answer me…

I have a question or two;
I know a blue man with eight fingers,
Who shouts and spits on subways,
Weeps into rags and stumbles with pitch pine toes,
Watches birds while fingering pocket holes,
You don’t shout with him,
You recoil…

While I speak; you check your cellphones,
Sip your wine, drink your 3 dollar soy lattes;
Is this entree vegetarian?
How often do you wake up next to another
Breathing body and feel nothing?

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is an important message!
Protect yourself.
If you see a suspicious package or activity,
Do not keep it to yourself.
Remain alert and have a safe day.

Let me ask you…
I know a man who touches stones to see what they are made of,
And is the rain that brings puddles to pot-holes,
Let me ask you,
Let me ask you, something.

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Broken King

July 10th, 2010 | in Poems, Uncategorized

Broken King

Know this;
you know why this is.
The empty room,
the stained sheets,
the shattered glass,
the broken chair.
Don’t touch me!
You must, think of me as
ash.
If you loved me
think of me as a ruined thing;
a moth’s wing
destroyed by the softest touch,
the lightest autumn breath or
a misplaced snowflake.

The slow moon sits
inside it’s frame
It fills the room
with hospital light
and the air smells of
stainles-steel and winter.
The radiator hisses.

I hate you,
standing there motionless
armless
featureless
a single lead spike
in the pine floor.
I would remove you
but for the fear of
crumbling
of breaking apart
or of trying to wrap my arms
around that terrible hot thing
that scalded the fresh brands
into my arms,
my face my chin.

Please, don’t say a single thing
or I will burst out crying!
Anything said,
would be foolish.
Don’t say a foolish thing.
Don’t you dare!
You know why this is;
from your bubbling cheeks,
Don’t let it slip,
Don’t you dare!
Don’t you dare apologize!

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Epitaph from Santa Monica

July 1st, 2010 | in Uncategorized

Epitaph from Santa Monica

She was tall and thin,
A political scientist,
Terrified of dying,
A pointed oval face
Held desperately onto
Nervous bright eyes,
A small pink mouth
Framed by hair of
Golden cotton-candy
-All this atop a cone of
Long yellow legs.

I was young; a mixture
Of porcelain and iron
With missing hands and
Metallic taste-buds.
A brutal fool.

An abyss
Other than this abyss
Separated us.
We dinned with wet eyes
And silent forks,
Over thoughts of
Raw onions and
Dead fathers.

We would go
And drive at night,
Only at night,
For hours.
Everything coated in blue;
Sad, blue and awful,
Our aimless grid
Without destination,
Sharing reflections
In silent company.

She said; god does not exist,
And poetry might not either.
We’d drive past bus stops,
Where silhouettes waited
Leaning against glass
Resigned and abandoned
Like pet turtles.

On the floor
We slept naked
On a thin mattress
And had bad oral sex,
Neither of us could come
So we lay flaccid
Shriveling in the shadows.

With anyone else;
The characters
Would check me out,
Look me up and down
Blink with alligator eyes,
I’d have this sensation
That only exists
While in the ocean
When two waves
Overlap frothing
Create confusion
Similar to the feeling of
Drowning or praying.

We would drive at night,
Everything coated
In blue powder
With no destination
Aimlessly mourning
Our improbable love,
In the tedium of twilight.

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Notes From a Young Man

June 29th, 2010 | in Poems, Uncategorized

Notes From a Young Man

I

Her wind swept hair.
At night I dream of having her,
Or of having had her.

It is absurd to dream of a dreamed body,
I can’t keep from laughing at myself
In the sterility of each midnight.

The impotent moon grins.
What’s so funny?
You shinny white motherfucker.

II

For years I lived around the corner
From a funeral home on 116th St.
Twice a day I’d walk past the hearses.

Once in the morning
Once in the evening
I’d tip my cap and wonder;
How much does the fare cost?

III

People who smile often horrify me,
One of us must be very wrong.

Is the world not so bad?
Do they read the news?
Or is it just a mechanical malfunction,
Like a loose bike chain.

IV

Nights when I can’t sleep
I sit by the open window
and mourn self-consciously.

I watch people speaking and walking
Sometimes a lover will flick
A tongue into the other.

I cannot see them
As anything but objects.
No different than the street lamps
That illuminate them.

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She Spoke and She Spoke For Me.

June 28th, 2010 | in Poems, Uncategorized

She Spoke and She Spoke For Me.

It was left unexplained,
spoken without an accent,
the throat rigid as a stalk,

palms empty and wet.

It was left desperate,

like a boxer’s feint,
an empty distraction,
bringing predatory warning.

It was left silent,

like the body of a deer
surrounded by wolves
all red teeth and silver.

It was left white,
like a convex thigh or
a finger hanging loosely

absent it’s iron.

It was left flooding,
like a nervous compulsion
or extra meaningless kiss
that consumes everything.

It was left searching,
like an open blue nostril
or a pore waiting
for a lover’s breath.

It was left lonely,
like the crescent triangle
of lost finger nail
discarded sequentially.

It was left astounded,
like a single lamp post
absent it’s shadow
during noon-time.

It was left tasteless,
like week-old bread,
melancholy and awful
missing moist tears.

The corners of her mouth, open and close
her ocean-colored eyes float in the room
long after she has turned and left…

What is to be done but tediously search
the exhausted corners for forgotten things
that can only be found among the dust…

She said my name and left it there, hanging…

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Ad Hominem

June 14th, 2010 | in Poems

Ad Hominem

The oranges on my windowsill gave me such unwarranted pleasure. They are gone now, like so many other foolish things disintegrated in the Mexican humidity and heat. Their skin turned dark orange, then gray, in a matter of hours. A black wasp visited them in the early afternoon. Hovering over them, in schizophrenic ways, like an angel of death. They are gone now. I felt so foolish putting them there, knowing full well their fate and inevitable demise. As I set each orange into it’s place, from left to right, I remembered the bitter woman who took my pesos with creased hands. The street smelled of dust and stone and urine. A baby cried. A rooster crowed. The old woman looked at me with hate assuming I wanted something she did not have. All I desired was five oranges and to touch her hands while they held my copper coins; hands of the earth, calloused and brown, my grandmother’s hands.

My grandmother held many things. Most of which could be called old, none of which I can remember, least of all was the head of my father. But the truth is; I don’t remember my grandmothers hands. I never bothered to look at them. I was then as I am now; alone and afraid. The only difference is that now I know of the passing of time. Now as it was then; I did nothing. I shut my eyes. I fled the scene like a murderer who glances over his shoulder while opening the door, closing the door and latching it twice.

I sat in a cold white corner beside the mirror. Staring into my white palms, which held nothing, except my cynicism and a white lie.

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A Silhouette at the End of the Road

June 13th, 2010 | in Poems

There is a silhouette at the end of the road

There is a silhouette at the end of the road. It is a small black
shape as if someone has poked an uneven hole into the horizon with a
pencil. The vague shape is slipping from side to side, an undulating
question mark deforming in the heat. Am I dreaming? He says out loud
to the space. Who are you? He says to the distance. Where did you come
from? He says to the vanishing road. The shape, the space, the
distance, the road; all remain silent. The wind answers, a bird
answers, a stone answers. The wind whips yellow dust into the air and
it collapses back onto itself like a beckoning hand, eventually thinning
out and settling like a memory. A bird screams tearing the horizon
like a piece of paper and the rocks hiss like melting ice cubes. It is
hot and orange and he stands shielding his eyes squinting at the
aberration. He sits kicking yellow dust over his boots like a nervous
child in unfamiliar company. He stands, he sits, a bird screams. I
need to shave, he thinks to himself. He wonders how he might do this
as he doesn’t own a razor anymore. He doesn’t own much of anything
anymore, not a razor, not a watch, not a hat, not even the growing
lines on his own face. Scratching the gray stubble on his chin he
wonders if he had ever owned those lines or had they always belonged
to someone else; that pale face, that sad smile, that mouth, forlorn;
in which the corners always seemed to understand the inevitable end to
all things. A bird screams. The sound lingers, the shape lingers, his
feet in his boots hurt. He waits for the shape to arrive or not. After
all, shapes pass by here quite often.

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