Showers

We were on the stoop chatting last night
and the sky threw a little rain on us
so we went inside and when you changed my fifty
you threw the dollar bills in a little shower over me;
a happy imitation of the rain.

On the Occasion of the Rapture

Sun. Clouds.
Timid drops of rain.
Pensive wind.
The day is confused about
what it wants to be.

Inspiration

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.

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.

The Internet

The Internet
remembers everything
and never shuts up

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.

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.