We can’t help but
keep each other alive
even as we struggle and fight
with words sent to hurt
A “Fuck you!” rides
a resuscitating breath
into the tree,
is sent out again and received
by you, an invisible gift
sustaining another breath
which you return in kind.
18 May 2011
16 May 2011
Poem
A little boy adjusts the boxes
containing the ashes of his grandparents,
squaring the corners
so they are still equal,
so they can still touch.
containing the ashes of his grandparents,
squaring the corners
so they are still equal,
so they can still touch.
10 May 2011
The New Sod is Establishing Its Root System
The lawn in Bryant Park is not open yet. The sign says
"The new sod is establishing its root system".
Good. Okay. We will allow that.
I can relate. I am also establishing my root system
in the colossal garden of Manhattan
where it can be so hard to reach the sun.
It's a tender journey into a new soil;
They are the arms of new lovers
inhabiting each other for the first time.
The kids are sitting on their horses
waiting for the carousel to begin.
I am sitting at a cafe table
on my break from work. A girl nearby
reads "The Catcher in the Rye."
I see a rabbit the size of a pony
begin to hop through the hedges
with a child on it's back.
It is not at all a convincing imitation
of the real thing.
I get up and, as I walk over to get a closer look,
the ramshackle rhythm of the calliope's song
dawns in my ears.
The children go smiling and twirling
and I'm smiling right along
to the beautiful, victorious song.
My life is becoming what I wished it would be.
The sprinkler blesses it's new constituents
then dwindles and is gulped back into the earth.
As I leave I see a shovel
standing upright in the dirt.
It is time to get to work.
"The new sod is establishing its root system".
Good. Okay. We will allow that.
I can relate. I am also establishing my root system
in the colossal garden of Manhattan
where it can be so hard to reach the sun.
It's a tender journey into a new soil;
They are the arms of new lovers
inhabiting each other for the first time.
The kids are sitting on their horses
waiting for the carousel to begin.
I am sitting at a cafe table
on my break from work. A girl nearby
reads "The Catcher in the Rye."
I see a rabbit the size of a pony
begin to hop through the hedges
with a child on it's back.
It is not at all a convincing imitation
of the real thing.
I get up and, as I walk over to get a closer look,
the ramshackle rhythm of the calliope's song
dawns in my ears.
The children go smiling and twirling
and I'm smiling right along
to the beautiful, victorious song.
My life is becoming what I wished it would be.
The sprinkler blesses it's new constituents
then dwindles and is gulped back into the earth.
As I leave I see a shovel
standing upright in the dirt.
It is time to get to work.
08 May 2011
Hipster University
Even the leaves don't mean it
in McCarren Park.
They bloom sarcastically,
a bushel of quotation marks
with no words inside them.
The pink buds are LA Gear
and the shaggy lawn is a big, pubic mustache
misplaced on Rollie Fingers' face and green.
Look what these beautiful people have done to themselves.
They seem determined to escape sincerity.
They don't even know if they mean it
but they do mean it.
They mean it so much.
in McCarren Park.
They bloom sarcastically,
a bushel of quotation marks
with no words inside them.
The pink buds are LA Gear
and the shaggy lawn is a big, pubic mustache
misplaced on Rollie Fingers' face and green.
Look what these beautiful people have done to themselves.
They seem determined to escape sincerity.
They don't even know if they mean it
but they do mean it.
They mean it so much.
09 April 2011
23 March 2011
Incorrect Sonnet
This sonnet neither of sound nor sense
has lines landing nine syllables each.
I beg your pardon this rank offense
but ten for me is an awkward reach.
The hopscotch of the iambic line
is a schoolyard game I never learned,
though I'm older now and have the time,
I'm much too lazy to feign concern.
Though some still count beats like Ye Olde School,
most poets today, for better or worse
(ruler'd rhythm sadistic and cruel),
puke on the page and call it 'Free Verse'.
It's those Beatniks fault we do what we want.
If I want the last line to be 46 syllables, it'll be 46 goddamn syllables. I'm an American, I couldn't tell you what a 'Trochee' is without Googling it. Who needs 'Trochees' anyway if they feel the line beating in their hearts and various other body parts? Bukowski and Ginsberg showed us how brilliant we are drugged on our own voice. To hell with metre'd confines. Rebel! Disrobe your sentences! (The beaker breaks. The concoction spills all over your mind, effectively BLOWING IT! It's now 'experimental'. No longer rhetorical. Not an emotional or psychological diorama. Not a poignant exhibit from the past, but the raw feed. A brush fire sweeps the rose patch.) Flaunt your undisciplined nudity, amateur genius’ everywhere! You've got to let things splurge if you want them to have that romantic force. It wouldn't be right to simply graft our hearts onto the schematics of long dead British guys. Trying to speak with the cadences of ghosts is treasonous to our own, much more discordant age. (this is where I demonstrate my vocabulary) Besides, God, they're Boooooo-ring! We've got to light the maps aflame and survey the trees and rivers ourselves, to verify we're going where we're going. HOWEVER (and this is a fine example), wandering can be arduous too. Sometimes you're just fleeing across the page, speaking to reaffirm to yourself your own genius. Convinced, it's time to wind this down. Trying desperately to find a rhyme to let me out. I can't.
has lines landing nine syllables each.
I beg your pardon this rank offense
but ten for me is an awkward reach.
The hopscotch of the iambic line
is a schoolyard game I never learned,
though I'm older now and have the time,
I'm much too lazy to feign concern.
Though some still count beats like Ye Olde School,
most poets today, for better or worse
(ruler'd rhythm sadistic and cruel),
puke on the page and call it 'Free Verse'.
It's those Beatniks fault we do what we want.
If I want the last line to be 46 syllables, it'll be 46 goddamn syllables. I'm an American, I couldn't tell you what a 'Trochee' is without Googling it. Who needs 'Trochees' anyway if they feel the line beating in their hearts and various other body parts? Bukowski and Ginsberg showed us how brilliant we are drugged on our own voice. To hell with metre'd confines. Rebel! Disrobe your sentences! (The beaker breaks. The concoction spills all over your mind, effectively BLOWING IT! It's now 'experimental'. No longer rhetorical. Not an emotional or psychological diorama. Not a poignant exhibit from the past, but the raw feed. A brush fire sweeps the rose patch.) Flaunt your undisciplined nudity, amateur genius’ everywhere! You've got to let things splurge if you want them to have that romantic force. It wouldn't be right to simply graft our hearts onto the schematics of long dead British guys. Trying to speak with the cadences of ghosts is treasonous to our own, much more discordant age. (this is where I demonstrate my vocabulary) Besides, God, they're Boooooo-ring! We've got to light the maps aflame and survey the trees and rivers ourselves, to verify we're going where we're going. HOWEVER (and this is a fine example), wandering can be arduous too. Sometimes you're just fleeing across the page, speaking to reaffirm to yourself your own genius. Convinced, it's time to wind this down. Trying desperately to find a rhyme to let me out. I can't.
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