Tag: writers

You And Me And The Devil Makes Three

Her kiss is a relapse, misfortune,
worsening of my worst impulses;
an awful influence full of irresistible.
Her words are drugs and drugs are a clutch,
til highs do us part and lows make us
whole again. Bags of heavy yesterdays
weigh down, and I don’t know what to do with myself.

Taken hands, hushed words, rushed stalls-
what a waste to not grab waist and do
a four letter word (love). Plans to keep
and make her a home, 5PM lockdown, rush hour,
crowded public when doubts double and my mouth
taste like cinders. Slipping  into a thought of her
like a favorite pair of jeans. Snug, familiar,
warm; she fits well. Run my thumb along the holes
and coffee stains, wonder what memory or feeling
the moment will settle as, when the honeys and the moons
fade. If my name will be a sigh, wistful as a cloud,
or vague as rain humming to what the radio plays. 
A feeling haunting me in the distance, a reminder
that you are in tangles and I am tangelsome.

Still I pray for relapse and disaster,
addiction and her sex to once again step into me,
far from fog and drizzled Sundays, so I might tug
on her thoughts like a shoelace.  I am undone again.

Venus over Dallas

transmuted misery of too many days in bed,
and cold heart and stiffed hamstrings.

bah humbug,
sweet Grinch!

when does Christmas end
and the new year starts feeling
like an old one. Montauk’s

got secrets that won’t leave
Long Island. Behind the lighthouse
inside a dark home we made a
cozy indent of what’s familiar.

stretched and spread in shapes
that wind and coil, tense with sweat,
passion as a form of exercise.
exhausted happiness, out of breadth,
grinning and blessed in natural serenity
and gentle sin. done up in rhyme

such madness to enjoy.

Hey Baby Are Your Parents Pilgrims? (Because It Looks Like You’re Settling)

Sandy asks me why I’m so quiet, and I don’t know what to tell her. Lately I’ve felt a lack for words and feelings although I’m pretty overstocked on both. I suppose I could be hoarding sentiments, saving them for a rainy day or bright eyed Jane on the subway. And I hear the tip-tip-tip-tap-tap-tip drizzle against my window sill but when I stare at the shelves then back at Sandy I just can’t bare to part with a single phrase or hug or Good Morning Beautiful. I’m overflowing again with so many thoughts in my head, but they don’t race any more. Instead they’re sluggish and relentless – dragging their feet through the recesses of my day while I’m in the shower or silently consoling strangers on the train. This afternoon I made a best friend and we carved our names on a tree trunk just outside of town although he doesn’t know it yet.

Sandy knows it though, I think. She knows too much sometimes.

And normally stuff like this is fine because I’ve always kind of lived my life with head in the clouds (and between warm legs,) just musing for amusement and just going through the motions with my body on autopilot. I’ve forgotten what the sun feels like so now I’m restless and sticky and asking what this thing dripping down my brow and heart is. Sandy says its pulp, and then I wonder if she’s calling me a fruit or something she can squeeze dry. I guess human adaptability can also be a pretty terrible thing when you think about it – becoming so used to something that the opposite feels like a threat. What a strange notion, to consider that I’m not used to happiness. It’s such an off term also if you read too deep into it like I always do: used to happiness. Used to it.

Happiness is using me, so happiness must be conniving.

So I’m far from melancholic, far from lonely, far from Moloch, far from observations of human desolation, but I’m never far from Sandy. And I’d rather not write about love if it ends well, to be honest, although that’s exactly what this disease is. I know it, but I won’t ever say it. Not ever. There’s a certain level of defeat that goes with that statement, and I don’t really mean in a sense of being ‘vulnerable’. It’s defeat because I feel I can still do better. My hormones remind me often – super models, and that girl who turned me down in secondary school, and that cutie on the third floor with the red hair and bitter eyes: they’re all as appetizing, have infinite possibilities and maybe friends that are probably even more attractive and more quirky and have even more strange and fascinating habits I can poke fun at over lattes and orgasms.

But they aren’t Sandy. They’ll never be Sandy.

Hope (aka It Takes 21 Days To Break A Habit, and 42 If They Text You Back)

“Do you know what poisons cows?” He asked.

A plastic bag rustled between the long limbs of an old and wrinkling tree. Two paper coffee cups tumbled down the street, their plastic lids clinking against the grey drum of a bubble gum strewn sidewalk in New York. A car horn screamed from somewhere not too far away. The wind picked up, the bag rustled louder, cups clinked faster, and I thought there was a kind of music to the pollution of a city.

“Is Esperanza,” He said, but I wasn’t listening.

I was too busy watching three children skip-the-cracks across the sidewalk, near a fruit cart stand selling green and purple grapes by the pound without the seeds. Bananas bagged in bushels and boxes full of strawberries on sale for a dollar. All the fresh fruit low-income housing could ask for, all for cheap, and about a walks home away from expiring.

“What?” I asked, and Mingo shifted his weight against his cane. I heard his thousand year old Puerto-Rican bones groan, and his mustache twitched like a cats whiskers as he adjusted his body weight. He smacked his lips, further adding to my mental metaphor, which was a bad habit he’d retained after years of chewing tobacco.

“The cow.” He repeated calmly. “You know what poisons them?”

And I shook my head to show I didn’t.

We were leaning on concrete slabs that edged out the corner deli just steep enough to take a seat in. Me, looking too deep into the everyday scenery, and Mingo’s
lively and grey little eyes glinting, looking out to Third Avenue the way a farmer does his crop. He had the patience only age can teach you, the still yet sturdy air of decaying trees. Wise and old, or old enough to seem wise; I couldn’t tell. An old man can say just about whatever he wants and get a stunned tribute from me. Maybe that’s the remnants of my inner Catholic I’ve yet to snuff out: respecting elders and thinking too highly of them, feeling overwhelmed by guilt if I didn’t. Or it could be that I trust experience more than anything, because the hardness of life is also a teacher. And from what I’ve seen, we don’t learn as much from happiness as we do from the scars of healing.

Esperanza, is a plant. They eat it, and then,” He ran his index finger along his neck, a universal sign, clicked his teeth, and the little calf was done.

I clipped my cigarette, feeling a stubborn and humid heat smoldering around me. It was close to 9AM but the day didn’t seem to want to start. Sunlight lingered on the horizon and yawned across the fruit cart vendors temples, slouched between the children across the avenue who’d stopped jumping and found more interest staring at their own feet. Dingy rays dragged between the plastic lids nestling in the gutter, crawled along the sidewalk and halfway up the 99 Cent and bodega storefront buildings. Then, near the top, seemed to wince and suddenly retreat, giving up on ever moving on with the day. The morning was a low, dull Monday: fat, bloated, and sitting on itself, waiting.

But for what?

“Why do they eat it,” I asked. “If it’s poison.”

And Mingo shrugged.

Esperanza is a flower, bright and beautiful with yellow petals. And Esperanza is also hope, just as bright and ruinous. I couldn’t decide which he meant killed them first, the toxins or definition, and as I wondered this, Mingo dug his shoes into the sidewalk and began to show his roots.

“I killed somebody once,” He said unexpectedly. “Coz’ of a woman.”

He was calm, not sad or entirely delighted. Not resentful, or proud, but with the air of a man that’s lived, and in living, was reflective of what he has done. I lack the grace to remain kind in cruel situations, but a hot heart for the coldest matters. Mingo had purposefully either confided in me as a friend, or turned the sanctuary of our corner into his personal confession booth. And in either scenario I couldn’t think of what to say, so chose to remain silent. Preferred to come off as indifferent than commit to either condoning or forgiving him, listened as a cars exhaust coughed awkwardly down the road.

“You got a girl?” He asked after a while.

Down the block a gilded goddesses hips swayed toward us, and she reminded me of a girl I reminded myself to forget. Gray eyed and somber lip’d, the kind of face easy to compliment and hard to miss-remember. I was staring and I didn’t care, and the longer I dared the sooner I realized that familiar was just wistful thinking. She didn’t look anything like her. The sighs were all wrong. She didn’t have the unhappiness riddled along her creases, she didn’t hold me like a melody at the sight of her hand or freckled forearm.

She passed us and swooped around the corner, and along with her, that memory I had almost remembered was gone.

“Yeah,” I said to Mingo, and I heard his head nod solemnly by the sound of his neck creaking.

Strange, the debris our hearts seem to build even after years of street cleaning. Odd, how songs still sound the same but lose lose their meaning once we outgrow them. The plastic bag still rustled between the limbs of an old and wrinkled tree, and a car horn’s scream got louder, but sounded just a littler farther off. The wind died down, the cups sat silently in the gutter, and I thought there was a kind of music to the pollution of a human being.

“Never killed anybody for her though.” I added, and Mingo laughed, ominously.

It began to rain and the three children scrambled under the safe pan of an awning. I felt a buzz in my pocket and reached for my cell phone, stood admiring the grim blue tint of a text message from a girl I reminded myself to forget. I didn’t mind the rain and smiled as the droplets ricocheted off the screen, a familiar invitation and a promise.

“You might someday,” He said.

I clipped my cigarette and said goodbye.

The Ildiot (aka Homer’s Beer Run)

Heaven is hell-bent,
misshapen sanctuary of senile.
Men make sinners out of love,
sibyls from devils and saints out of
air. The clever pray for deliverance
in a cup, Gods nectar and wheat’s bounty;
bitter-sweet ambrosia by the barrel;
His holy bottled excellence.
A nightly Immortality.

Our hero marches, his voyage soft
to the song of chirping sirens.

Dear deacon of the deli, bringer of
my bread and sacrilege. Clandestine
clerk who offers passage to His hazy
river Styx, in brown paper bags and
long side glances that confess
disbelief a 2AM pilgrimage can wait
for the sacrament of home. Two coins
short and Charon grims, no ferry waits
for those when his toll has gone unpaid.

Our hero cautions his voice to balm,
cold and hooded ears who would deny them.

Forgive me Ahmed, for I am dimmed.
Sweet Gods of Hell and mercy,
grant me light and credit
that I may learn peace and pass
this dark and grim abyss,
to far and pleasant lands
where one dreams and is awake.

Our hero fallen, his journey lost
to the oarmen’s long and awful silence.

His cleric nods, Go-Then, take it, bid farewell,
but Heaven has no room for cleverness.
This world is a loan to be repaid,
and I will you see you once again
with a stone at your back
and Hell at your heels.

Our hero sombers on, his voyage back home safe,
with bags of ambrosia, pockets full of coins,

and the hidden smile
of Sisyphus son.