Tuesday, September 30, 2008

let us keep it real

i don't know what i'm doing.
i think too much about things
that don't concern me
* this morning, mosquitoes were abound
on my walk.
"this looks like
the spread of something dire."
how much i should be flinching.
will they stick? they fly well,
don't they?

* a girl
she wore a subway uniform---she
knows condiments---
she was changing a tire. lug nuts
on the ground
of the parking lot
getting off from work
i could change
a tire. no, i couldn't
not without a booklet

and it's kind of cold today
where do mosquitoes think they are?
haven't seen them all summer---
now here they come
have I unpacked my winter clothes?
like my ideas?
I could undress, but
the request
was to unpack
* i'm concerned about white boys
who walk around without jackets,
in short sleeves
i am dating one of these white boys
sans jacket
how do i feel?
how does he feel when i mark him
with the gaze he tutored me on?

i don't know if i'm really a feminist.
yes, i made this transition without
a buffer.
this worries me too.
i'm not smooth and i have no principles.
i don't know if i like the gifts
and if i like being worth the trouble
and if i like to be aesthetically pleasing.
i'm not sure whether i should be
flattered anymore or if i should maintain
that i'm oppressed. i am certain that a
mosquito got me.

i think about smaller things that
seem bigger. that woman with the cheap heels
is deranged. i remember her rant vividly.
she's asian and she talks loudly.
is she me? am i shrill, sometimes irrational,
and actually insane? i'm waiting for a
collective reply.

the woman next to me, not the asian woman,
i keep marking accurately, is black is talking
about keeping it real--- "you know what i'm sayin'?"
no i don't.
no woman is capable of this.
not for the life of me. i can't even admit
my inability to change tires.
part of me knows i can! can't be too hard.

and so i continue to think
and call people up, mostly friends, and ask
them: "am i worth this trouble?"
hoping they don't reply honestly. i know
they won't.
the white boy i'm dating, who doesn't wear
jackets---i'm very curious to see
his winter wardrobe, doesn't need to
reply honestly either.

so i wonder, i ponder, i ruminate:
"is anyone capable of keeping anything real?"
am i simply too young to know better?
what's better?
"that chicken-headed ho better not come
'round my house again with that mess.
i will straight up cut a bitch."
is that better? can't be. seems too upsetting.
the woman next door, the black woman, not the asian woman,
seems fine with this. therefore i am too.
not really.

the future is as fuzzy as this morning.
i had a meager breakfast and coasted
on fumes. i imagine this is what's in store.
i imagine this is what's waiting for me:
a light-headed feeling mixed with irritation.
the future is me lacking substance and only
getting by
on a hotpocket
again, it's barely something to worry about,
but i'm sure i'm mature enough to see
the trouble ahead of me.
i don't know what i'm doing and yet
i walk on like hotpockets are enough and
writting topics of interest and conversation
on my hand
for people, so as to appear half way coherent, is real.
and as i scratch my cold, tired, itchy arm,
i settle into the funk or existential meltdown
that is tuesday.
that's is as real as it gets.
You've read more in the eyes of a child than the book before you.
One is more captivating. I know
you're thinking about what you see. There's nothing here for you.
I averted my eyes and that's how you knew I was lying.
Before then, I stared at you for nearly an hour.
I'd like to think I'm getting better at this.
She fawned
over a man
until she saw disturbing images
I pushed my body against yours until I could barely breathe and it was not enough I wanted to dip my fingers into your body and claim each fiber as my own.
The praying mantis exists.
It was in my hair;
that's how I know.
This is a large brownie.
What if we weren't in love?
I cut it too large
And I were the girl in the front row,
and ate it too fast.
Waving my hand around---shouting answers?
I was slightly hungry
I would have lusted for you
and I didn't eat breakfast to the best
and you would have had to ignore me.
of my ability.
We would have been nothing.
You warned me of this.
Who else is in line
to help distract us
from ourselves?

We do an excellent job
of doing ourselves in.
What we do little of
is doing what makes
us happy.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

It's hot out and you note
a blush in my cheeks.
I want to say that it's because
we're interacting with one another,
but I ask if it's cute.
Of course it's cute.
We kiss again again.
I run out of things to say
and we must part.
I miss your orange shirt.

Monday, September 22, 2008

there isn't much left
to hang on to.
we like the temporary
and wish that it listened
to us

we've prayed for ideal
forgetfulness brought
to us by It

we've gotten, instead,
a grey lump of dawn
that makes up for it all

we like the crazy
and wish that the End
were perched on our doorstep

we've asked the loons
for permission to take
what's not ours, the bold

it breaks our hearts.

We are Listening

When we constructed
images out of his image
we imagined the classical
reference was not lost on the
rest of the world, so preoccupied
with images.
And we were wrong

But it’s been real.

When we waited
in the corners of a blackened
we didn’t find anything, just a
nuance of dust, some Greek complex
and cereal bits.
But we made our beds

And it was real.

When we awoke
this morning and last year
we were quiet not to wake
the animals outside,
our consideration was applied
to the rabbits in particular.
And we are the same.

It’s been real.

“Keeping track of time?”
The only thing we tracked
was the time it took the gold
filament in your eyes to darken
in light of an approaching storm
and the rabbits won the game.
And we let them believe.

It was real.

The Man

Who is the man and who is
outclassed, going on a track
headed nowhere fast and in
concentric circles?
We've seen your enemy
and we like his flair---
we're calling upon his mercy
to give out reason freely and
consider the next talk and to promise that
our reflections travel at the same pace
as those once mentioned concentric
circles that led to our almost certain
death or like-minded demises.
Those circles that beg bad mistakes,
we're those mistakes (all of them)
I looked at the same stars and
asked where that man is and
should I bother with his reception?
It's only life, only culture, only
my existence, we said.
We are not ready to
begin, but we can begin
all day if we need to.

You're a Good Man

You're a good man, charlie brown
you're the immigrant that hit the
ground running to and from the
LaGuardian taxis and it's good
to see you in this perpetual state of
rock bottom honesty mixed with
terse self involvement. It's as if
we're watching a critical analysis
of you fucking yourself. It's groovy
to me and you're very aware of this.
Aren't you?
Honestly, the demons don't make it
too far out of our heads, do they? Or
are they always within arms reach
just waiting to grope us in the dark?
But you're not afraid, are you, charlie brown?
You're the boy who cried devastated for
no apparent reason,
but it was evident though
You're the last hoodlum troubled by
the threat of one of those new cutsie
existential meltdowns that take 24-hours
to clear up.
You make us all proud
You're a good man, charlie brown.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Let's Roll

I feel like I need to get high, immediately
and for no good reason.
But who needs a reason?
I've got a reason. A good one.
Because the world is moving like an
rambling locomotive, headed straight for
an orphanage. The children are all reading
picture books based on loving ideology.
Not knowing,
a train is on it's way.
We gotta hit the breaks!
How's about we roll them instead.
Let's roll a fat one.
We are no longer individuals
you and i
We are nothing more than collective dust particles
you and i
And I am writing this down.

Chance Meetings

A man stepped out of a portable pot
and faced the world
Instead of the world, I guess,
he got me.
I happened to be passing by
He happened to be done pissing
It was a surprise for both of us.

What's Left of Me

No ones appetite is gone
but mine.
And that's the way of the world.
The sense of conjunction is blurred
We're all going to see this today.
Today, in the sense of "out there"

I'm just a little thirsty
Everyone's got a bottle of sand
to sell and I've got coins
outdated and coarse.

I am the last man standing
Everyone's still sitting
and swigging on what's left
of this poem

Portrait: Tascha

It's her palace and i'm her jester
most of the time
she is unimpressed
and indifferent
But there are brief
and shining examples
of a smirk
"I'm kind of a big deal," i tell her,
half serious---
half recounting a joke
And she laughs just like i knew she would
and then she goes back to her business

Show the jester out, please.
She is all about face-value
What can be touched
isn't always kosher.

Monday, September 15, 2008


In our collective fall from grace
we collected the last parts of our dignity
we strapped them to our bodies and
erupted from the buses, a mass of weeds
growing without memories
We are the collective idiots, praising
one another with "bless yous" and "thank-
None asked for more than what was
Necessary? We crossed a thousand miles
from the sky to the river to the mesosphere
to get to happiness.
Let's talk about necessary.
Let's talk about it all.
We're lost in what we maintain is nirvana and
we're waiting until something better comes
Until then we're along for the collective bus ride.


On a black and spacious night,
our memory left us
We didn't respect it enough
We created in haste
while listening to nothing
and then to Al Green

On this black and spacious eve
our memory left us
We do what we do
the same
Pound just calls it bad habits
We've only got one good poem
in us
(God hides it in his reserve)
and when we don't look
we repeat
vast amounts of knowledge
sung by Al Green

We are repeated offenders

We forget how we came to this point
We should stay together
"Let's stay together"
Our memory is hiding in the black
It is laughing at us.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Portrait: Noah

Caravaggio painted him
the Boy with Fruit
the graceful line from his
furrowed brow
to the tip of his nose
is where a brush dipped.
But between his lips---
that is where my tongue dips

The narrow
space between
our hearts
is turbulent,
that is, until
I run my fingers down the trail
of an ancient paint brush and stop
at the parting of his lips.

Monday, September 8, 2008


the tonic was effective the cantos were screamed the shades were drawn the scene rested in shambles and so did they the dam was not secure the air was full she was full the bones were tired the muscles were strained the faces were buried the souls were almost dead the joints were pulled the time was imagined and fleeting the backs were arched the night was finished the walls were falling out and over and beneath the backs the backs that were arched the hands were free to roam the exploration was thorough the coming and going was never the same and yet consistently satisfying the darkness was lulling and sinister and playful the bodies the hands the mouths the souls the bones the backs collided and the tonic was effective

Sunday, September 7, 2008


He's alive
most certainly
and pawing at reason
making accurate
movements, chopped and deliberate

The thumping bass
matches the uterine throb
like old music,
really old,
contractions of walls
she is awake


light that pours in
pours over skin
into the spaces between
they are few and far
this is meaning
rolling thru
under and around
old news and no news
the time that's stretched
beyond the sun
the light
that pours in
its not here
its not green
it is not a pilgrim
it is not on the road to my
hip from your thigh
trust that light
is old news but new
just the same
we've been stretched
and time is following
far and few
green and supplicant
pliant and penitent