‘Blink’ (August/1998)

it was when she blinked
that the world went out of focus
it was a half second
a train transfer to an express
an uptown preaching of original sin
it was 6 hours to judgement day
whiling the hours away
with safe sex
a problematic kaleidoscopic solution
to a skin rash of a problem
fixing the holes during a meteor storm
catching all the raindrops in a fucking colander
like Ralph said
MOVING WITHOUT MOVING,
bigger,
bigger,
so the day begins
to make its decisions about which
thatched-roof huts
get the sun
and which get the shade
I beckon her to put her lingerie on
you know, the sexy stuff that makes me
confuse her with the sea
it was a life alone
in a blink
she asked me to put it all on a floppy once
I burned her a CD instead
I called it love
within them thunderstorms
lies a kind of tabla beat
impossible
like the bodies
of the dark chocolate stout sisters of 125th street
impossible
like boots and jeans in August
impossible
like nymphomania
but I tried it twice
all I found was fluorescent death
a phoenix flame revival
courtesy the incancesdents
neither time did I learn my lesson
maybe there’s a truth to be found in the bed
between the covers
given the right
rumination
an eye blink
of a moment’s hesitation.

4 July 2011, 15:36

Your Turn

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‘Porcelain Feet’ (February/1996)

unfortunately,
there are no solutions for me
to find in the rosepetal harmonies
of the breaths you blow over me
as you sleep
safe with me
for as long as you want to be

stuck with me in this minor happiness

while I keep your porcelain feet warm.

2 July 2011, 14:38

Your Turn

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‘Meant For That’ (Early/1998)

would that it was her own worst nightmare
this peppermint vision of ovarian troubles
a spear in the gut

there is nothing so easy as failure, mother
and there’s much I need to say
though I make no real claim to wisdom

I picture you at home by yourself,
the television on
arms folded
you have no idea how angry you look
to little seven year old girls and boys
I consider the paradox of procreation
the rum settles the ice
I reinvent the ink I’ve been avoiding for 3 months
and mull over the life I’ve lived
the friends women and moments in between
I cannot find room in the world for a woman
who believes herself to be meant for that
having brought two lives here
on desks, floors, maybe beds

I’m looking for you
is the honest truth
I have no anger left
though I am tired before my time, I think
and I have no use for blame anymore

I live my life for the piano solos
warm weather and soft lips
your spiral into misery fucks me up
the possibility of that melody becoming mine
is something that keeps me up at night,
thinking where it all goes wrong

1 July 2011, 06:33

Your Turn

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‘The New Sixth Avenue Ethic’ (November/1997)

it’s about the freedom of women
to shake their Indian asses
on the avenue, at midnight.
ask me again and I will not reply.

its about the strains of a rusted homeless tenor
saxophone
pumped through with the depest blues
and more invisible soul(s)
breaking down the checklist of suffering
in this lifetime agony
through an instrument

and despite his empty belly the sounds run full
up
from the subway platform 30 ft. below
and up
through the bedrock and milk crates
and up
to find air beyond the grates that feet find purchase on

for a moment

as the masses swirl on

in a city where nature can’t help them

and if all the fluorescents went out
we’d be unable to read the poems on the page
and life would still be inconclusive

ask me then and I’ll admit my arrogance
but at least something was written
for men
who expect salvation from the milk of women
in any sympathetic destruction of skin
or rescue
from the memory
of soft lips
mouthing
sweet
words

when they take the exclamation marks off the typweriters
it makes it impossible to speak with conviction
and ask the right questions
but we kept on down the avenue regardless
and we spoke in iambic couplets

she and I.

29 June 2011, 07:52

Your Turn

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‘Humbert Humbert & Two New Nymphets’ (Spring/1998)

maybe all is well in the world when we bare our teeth and let the
fur stand straight up from our necks and make no bones
about how close it is we really do sit to the earth,
human as we are,
flawed as we are,

little gut buckets of regret; like summer and fall in expected,
IF A THEN B relationships of motivation and change of heart

this is not personal

passion is for everyone, an undercooked mass-produced commodity that
goes down quick — its taste is often that of sweat trickling down the small of a back

passion in love and hate, passion in reason, things deteriorate
passionately as passion is given away on the road and found drowning
in the bottom of a glass of beer its gills flooded
with the salt of the earth

picture the melancholy of its heartbeat as it enters a new room,
knowing its coming is strung to its going, as the sunrise is to the sunset more than anything else we share

this legacy we are all born from and that men and women
have died for, shamelessly…

…but, no: this much should be said:

none of this was personal.

27 June 2011, 18:35

Your Turn

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