Blue Skies

This morning I could not get out of bed,
so I listened to that song by Noah and the Whale.
The band broke up a year ago, but it is still my favorite
one and I can listen to it in the sheets, and in between
the slits sunshine pulls apart the shades. But my room
is just too bright because last night I drank enough that I
forgot to close the window. I wonder if the birds will blow
inside and sit upon my belly button. They are
rustling in the trees, even the leaves can't seem to
stay on beat as they flutter, float and flitter on one foot
from branch to branch and I think these birds are robins, but
I'm color blind so I really cannot say for sure.

And lately I've been feeling overcast and overcome by
clouds, but Noah wrote this song for me, and if what it says
is true, then softly in A minor the blue skies should soon be
calling.

Below my window I can hear a man in Washington
Square Park, with his patent leather shoes and green velvet
pants to not quite match, keying up to the piano, playing
pieces more percussive than the open air, grounded in his
seat, butt clenched, heels dip down to the cement—his
daily grind of barefoot metal pedal pushing, and I’ve never
even tried to play an instrument.

But before his fingers waltz from black and white to maybe blue,
he holds his breath and closely I can hear him let it go in gust,
a sound more precious maybe than the clinking chords. I squint
to watch the sheet of music cartwheel to the left, a monumental
whoosh and I will not move to find my glasses, but stretch enough
to slam the window shut. I shudder, almost taking out my finger,
but I’m lucky it will only be a bruise. 

Exercise

I am not like my sister. Instead of running, I write.

HER VOICE WAS RASPY.

Two pills everyday and they made
her mouth dry. Sipping water through
a straw, she spoke to him in whispers,
licking lips in rhythm with the ticking
of her Timex watch. She lied and said
she had a cold, but with that million-dollar
voice like Janis Joplin she'd really never
sounded better.

HE LOOKED SO ANGRY.

You could hardly tell unless you really knew him.
Bloodshot eyes and you could see he'd been awake
for hours. Barefoot. He couldn't help but curl his toes
and twist his tie in circles. And, if you could see the
rouge-like tinge upon his cheeks you would have thought
he'd been out running, maybe sex, but then you'd hear
the truth within his sigh.

Steps

How funny you are today New York
Like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime
And St. Bridget’s steeple leaning a little to the left

Here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days
(I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still
Accepts me foolish and free
All I want is a room up there
And you in it
And even the traffic halt so thick is a way
For people to rub up against each other
And when their surgical appliances lock
They stay together
For the rest of the day (what a day)
I go by to check a slide and I say
That painting’s not so blue

Where’s Lana Turner
She’s out eating
And Garbo’s backstage at the Met
Everyone’s taking their coat off
So the can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchers
And the park’s full of dancers wit their tights and shoes
In little bags
Who are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Y
Why not
The Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won
And in a sense we’re all winning
We’re alive

The apartment was vacated by a gay couple
Who moved to the country for fun
They moved a day too soon
Even the stabbings are helping the population explosion
Though in the wrong country
And all those liars have left the UN
The Seagram Building’s no longer rivaled in interest
Not that we need liquor (we just like it)

And the little box is out on the sidewalk
Next to the delicatessen
So the old man can sit on it and drink beer
And get knocked off it by his wife later in the day
While they sun is still shining

Oh god it’s wonderful
To get out of bed
And drink too much coffee
And smoke too many cigarettes
And love you so much

-Frank O'Hara

American Odalisque

Scwhinn rests in back seat
of my blue convertible;
leaving, I’m sorry.

Snails sprawl fine sand, dawn
spills like waste into the sea.
I don’t care either.

Mobil Station next
rest stop, where I phone my love.
Busy; no answer.

Coked & dancing, I
think of Cape Cod now, your voice.
Shivering barstool.

I’m safe now in town.
I sleep late with my new love.
Remember?  Say yes.

Cool, professional,
like a river is a slave
for sun, I seek love.

Pepsi & money
flow easy; I need you here
while I am just past young.

I stall on the bridge,
press my emergency light.
Berkeley, a lifetime.

Midnight.  Heaven is
bathing, the window open.
Just a kiss away.

Aren’t they always
mistaken for images,
your Invisibles?

A coyote, bats,
they put me in no mood here,
I can’t touch myself.

And think of the moon
who is my family since
I have no children.

Are fish unconscious
and mute?  Last night I ate one
in lime sauce.  Year pass.

My car, your shadows.
Roadrunner skids to the door.
My friends are scattered.

What will the new art
be made of?  Dusk, a snowfall,
same cold human feet.

Easter Sunday sun.
Stewardesses picketing
United parade.

-Jane Miller

The Not Quite Love

I haven’t been home in nearly two weeks.
My new lover has a fridge full of beer
and can almost make jollof rice
also the sex is good
and we are falling into something we will soon mistake for love

anyway, 
‘home’ is a problem. There are the bills and there
are the mice
plus
there is that feeling you get
when you catch up with yourself.

-Yrsa Daley-Ward, bone

Alone with Everybody

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul, 
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds. 
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh. 

there's no chance
at all: 
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate. 

nobody ever finds
the one. 

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills. 
 

-Charles Bukowski

To My Sister

“Let all of life be an unfettered howl.  Like the crowd greeting the gladiator.  Don’t stop to think, don’t interrupt the scream, exhale, release life’s rapture.  Everything is blooming.  Everything is flying.  Everything is screaming, choking on its screams. Laughter. Running.  Let-down hair.  That is all there is to life.”

-From Gods by Nabokov

In the Picture

the sun sets on Avenue C
and the movie starts with a cliché
but the girl in the stained yellow skirt
sits upon the curb, stockings ripped
flowers falling from her hair and
the cars never limiting their speed
40 mph in a 25-mile zone roll the
windows down and their dogs hang
out their heads it is 95 percent humidity
licks her lip to taste the rust and
the camera zooms to get a closer look.

she bites her cuticles fingers
painted gold and she is wondering
how she got here used to take karate
at the place right down the street and
there’s dead skin under her nails panning
to the right a man is running in a tracksuit
middle-aged with white stripes up his
side and she is invisible

the director cuts the sound she
is crying in the dark focus only on her
eyes and they are blue in silence there
is too much contemplation with each new
take she is forced to second guess creative
and the other choices, when she speaks it’s
almost unbelievable tastes of grapes upon
her tongue and shame shows across her
chest like the book it’s a scarlet letter

and as she sits she can remember
all the things she can’t remember
discredited they do not know that the
movie is a picture of her life black and
white because it’s trendy just her face
looks good on camera high cheekbones
she got them from her mother insecurely
she always balanced on one foot

but in the fall there is only a redemption in
the dark the shadow fades in time they say
she is the “next big thing” reminiscent of
Grace Kelly and she will hang a million dollars
from her neck makeup makes her sparkle gives
some color to her ears and she cannot feel a
thing but she is laying on the sidewalk now
curled up à la hermit crab and the shell is
like the womb lighter and brand new tags
still on but no returns it is not the policy
of the store but releasing her imagination
she can’t wait to be reborn.

Last Night

I slept with one shoe on,
the second on the floor.
There’s a gash
on my knee, black
and blue around the edges. I
never mastered heels, never
meant to be so damaged, but
I like the way it looks.
Stubbed my toe on the
foot of the metal
bed frame, and I didn’t feel a
thing. Coils moving seesaw
motions, twisted spirals back
and forth. I can’t seem to
find my bra thrown up
on the fan. And
the room is basement bare
unfinished.

Half asleep and just
awake, you kiss my forehead,
working right down to
my toes. The stuff of
Saturday mornings, and
the coffee tastes sweet
when you bring it on a
breakfast tray. Your smile
opens the curtains, sun-
seeped, fingers through my
hair. Knots, untangled strands,
brush them off my collarbone
exposed in all my freckles.
Skin so smooth and the
beer on your breath makes
me want you more.

Covered in a quilt my
grandma made and my
skin is always cold. I
will put it in the oven of
your arms, closing eyes
as everything looks
better in the dark, and
we don’t care about the
birds outside our window,
red-bellied, and they talk
in code - we have our
own that they cannot
understand. And

we won’t get out
of bed today. Bodies
sink into the mattress,
making molds that maybe
know us better than we
know ourselves. Stains
on the sheets remind
us that we’re human, but
like fireflies, we exist only
in the night.

Heartbreak

"Religious people, more than anyone, should know
that the strongest thing in the world is loneliness.
No one can beat it. Even god is alone."

-Etgar Keret

אנשים דתיים, יותר מכולם, אמורים לדעת שהדבר הכי חזק בעולם זה בדידות, את זה אף אחד לא יוכל לנצח, אפילו אלוהים לבד.

Tears in Hebrew

tears in Hebrew start
from the right side of a page
ending read in waves

You left me on the corner—
I was hoping you would stay.
Bags in the back, cab door
slams and you, with your hands
around my face, like an oyster
shell—and me the pearl, you
say the words that make it hard
for me to stand, you sing,
"You are the only thing in any
room you're ever in." I cannot
drop your gaze but you are sliding
towards the car, slipping in and
sitting down. "I'm stubborn, selfish
and too old." I hold my breath,
your smell within my nose, in
hand my favorite book about
the girl with crazy glue, you know
I think I am that girl, hanging
wrong-side round, from the
ceiling of the sky, you, dangling
from my lips before gravity
lets you down.

No seats on the E train, back
pressed against the smudge-
stained door. You try to
balance on your toes, but your
heels come crashing down.
"You are not a dancer," I said. But
I will keep you anyway.

I made you write a note on a blank
page of the book, between the end
and nothing else. I stole the pen
from your hotel room, I liked the way
it wrote my name in loops. You made
me turn my head while your hand of
Hebrew scratches moved along
the page in waves. I popped Skittles
in my mouth, dropped the wrapper
to the floor. My tongue was blue and
you, gave me back the words.  

Not now. Closed the cover, pages
bent to fit inside my purse. Even
if I wanted to, I could not read
it. I am not a translator. My phone
is lost. You said I'll have to find
someone who can.

I watch you drive down
Houston in one disappearing
cloud. And me, walking home
in the opposite direction, I wear
a smile on my face that masks
the most. Pacing past the
footsteps on the street, stopping
only for a moment, catching sun
upon my cheeks. I hold a secret
no one knows—an emptiness that
sits inside my pocket. I hope it
does not show,

but through a friend's friend of
a friend, I find the meaning of
your note, you wrote: 

Books in Hebrew start from here.
That is how we think.
The other way around.
Your body meant to mine
and around again.

I can look at your for hours.

 

 

On Love

Someone can be madly in love with you and still not be ready. They can love you in a way you have never been loved and still not join you on the bridge. And whatever their reasons you must leave. Because you never ever have to inspire anyone to meet you on the bridge. You never ever have to convince someone to do the work to be ready. There is more extraordinary love, more love that you have never seen, out here in this wide and wild universe. And there is the love that will be ready.

When you meet that person. A person. One of your soulmates. Let the connection. Relationship be what it is. It may be five mins. Five hours. Five days. Five months. Five years. A lifetime. Let it manifest itself, the way it is meant to. It has an organic destiny. This way if it stays or if it leaves, you will be softer from having been loved this authentically. Souls come into, return, open, and sweep through your life for a myriad of reasons, let them be who and what they are meant.

-Nayyirah Waheed

In Wrong

there is a
right, that
strips me
bare, and I
am suddenly
aware
of being naked,
only in my
socks,
understanding

the necessity
of second
chances, but
in substance

I am vulnerable, 

still obsessed

with being
in your
presence,
promised to
the thought
that you
would stay, I
still

believe in
serendipity, 
knowing I am
not forgotten
yet in essence,
linked to
loss, the love it
hurts to be
so optimistic,
wanting
something
altogether
idealistic, our
toes to touch

and I can
ask, but will
not get
the words
I crave, "I am
yours," and if
there really is a
greater plan,
"I want you
as my
own," let it
lead me to

the truth, your
body that fits
perfectly in
mine.