even though you’re not in a movie

poetry

there is a piano, i’ve noticed,
playing slowly in the background
as you walk through this city
in the snowfall and it’s playing
something perfectly suited for
the mood. the sun is down and the
notes are slow and probably in
some minor key. the snow covers
the ground, but is still thin enough
for the cobblestone to be obvious
enough it adds to the ambiance.

but i think i hear an electric guitar
fading in and
i’m fairly certain we all know what
this means. what’s coming for you.
when you turn that corner, it’s like
you don’t know you’re in a movie.
but every viewer is painfully aware
of your fate.

mother, your blue collar son

poetry

mother, your blue collar son
did not get the retail job.
got the warehouse job.
heard disappointment spring a leak
when he told you.
hadn’t felt disappointed
until then.
gets why.
He could be lifting boxes
back in Nicaragua.
And despite your expectations,
the college degree
landed him here.
He needs the money.

mother, your blue collar son
has the credit card
for emergencies.
mother, your blue collar son
switched from American Spirits
to Parliaments. Is considering
switching to Newports. It
would save him two dollars
per pack.
Has not considered
quitting. Does not know how much
he spends on cigarettes each month
Is afraid to do the math.

mother, your blue collar son
read The Count of Monte Cristo
and wrote two poems
last week. He liked
The Count of Monte Cristo
and his friends liked the poems.
He knows
that is not enough.
Does not know
what is enough.
Does not measure success
in salaries.

mother, your blue collar son
would hate the office job.

mother, your blue collar son
read three articles on
immigrants expecting more
from their children.
remembered your stories
about not knowing the right words
to trick-or-treat with
in English.
Then texted his ivy-league brother.
Then laughed when his brother
said he was the favorite.
Then thought about it all night.

mother, your blue collar son
is happy to be paying the rent.
happy to be writing these poems.
imagines getting buff
working at the warehouse.
imagines getting published.
is happy.
has sworn off words like, “enough”
to describe happiness.
flinches when you use those words
to describe money.
does not measure success in salaries.
Knows what is enough,
does not know
what is enough
to you.

mother, your blue collar son
does plan
on more than this.
is starting small, and knows it.
does not need speculation
on how small.
regrets telling you the wage
for this reason.
stop calling you back
for this reason.
is happy, but
with every intention
of becoming more
than what he is.

mother, your blue collar son
is not doing this
for you. Is not
doing this because
he has to.
Is doing this
because
when he was little
you told him
he could.

to keep from falling off a cliff

poetry

you could grab on to some shrubbery
during your fall and attempt
to brace yourself from something
terrible.

alternatively you could turn around
before you reach the edge of the cliff
and avoid the fall altogether and thus
the need to brace yourself.

but lets be honest that you’re not
reading this while still running towards
the cliff, you’re on your way down and
want a way out.

so grab some shrubbery. hope for a trampoline
at the bottom of the valley. or just simply
brace for impact. for sometimes the inevitable
is just that, and acting like it isn’t coming
isn’t going to make the splat any less painful.

why do i always forget?

poetry

why do i always forget?
things are for keeping
as garbage they damage
and take so long to disappear
so if you have a thing
you should stop
every once and a while
and touch it and look at it
so you don’t needlessly replace it
society will build to your demand
they profit from your idle things
and then hide the garbage away
so it looks like it disappears
and your life is a revolving door
of things that have no
significance and can disappear,
conveniently
but that is not the case
they are long to disappear
and you should use and cherish
things
one day you might miss them
like a love
replaced with something

similar.

poetry

Sometimes someone comes and knocks, something like two or some three times.
And then sometimes you have you kick out that someone, or do something like punch that someone once or sometimes twice, somewhere like in the face.
But usually it’s not a problem and you can just sit on your couch and continue eating your onion rings without worrying about it.

Someday Your Ship Will Come In

poetry

Is life summarized in empty soda cans
or stacks of boxes of fine old clothes or
the silences of long car rides after funerals
and tragedies? In movie quotes? In filing cabinets
in debt collector’s offices?

You are a book with a table of contents
and and an index in the back
and your best friend indexed a lot of it,
for you, until he got bored and did other things.

Then you spent your time with a beautiful woman
or an electric guitar or
both, but neither for long enough
and so your reference notes grew more confusing
but less meaningful, really, with
every passing day.

Now you tend bar in a seedy town
and the money is pretty good and you haven’t
seen what’s her face in years but who gives a shit.
Your guitar was sold at someone else’s rummage sale
last January.

There isn’t much fight in you these days
and you pour as much for yourself as for
everyone else, though you haven’t had soda in months
now.

The cans are still scattered near the kitchen door.

no parking Sunday

poetry

turning left
on 56th,
I step out of Brooklyn
and into a festival, the
moment my feet leave
the sidewalk.

in the distance I see
the whole street blocked off,
and decide to make my way up
on the pavement.
it feels no different
through the rubber soles
of my one pair of sandals,
but the breeze seems
more accessible, here,
separated from the rising buildings.

without fear of rushing cars,
barbeques have sprung up
to offer all their smells of summer,
and trays full of burgers
are eagerly passed around to
hungry grandmothers, who,
finishing each in three bites,
argue over which has been
prepared best.

children blaze by on tricycles and scooters,
all of which are the same
candy shade of pink.
the kids tirelessly race
each other down the small hill
of this block, before pushing
themselves back to the other end,
scooters dragging limp behind them.
some pass me two, and even three
times as I continue walking,
their hair sailing and smiles
set firm in their cheeks, as the
eyes of mothers hide secretly
behind tables, with
hands ready to spring out
and prevent any impending crash.

an inflatable pool is filled with
young boys in t-shirts, and
cupfuls of water are brandished
against any girls who
make an approach.

a haphazardly tossed Frisbee,
also pink, makes its descent
out of the sky and lands
directly in front of me.

Dare I pick it up?

I too have reveled in games
of catch in the middle of the street,
though one very distant from here.
Perhaps I could toss it back
to the triangle of boys, and,
seeing me join the game,
the men nearby would put down
their deck of cards
and come play as well.

visions of a street-wide game
cross my mind, as well as of me
sitting with the grandmothers
to judge the burgers, and, later,
being taught the secrets of dominos.

Yet,
with a thick book under my arm,
my eyebrows firmly serious, and my
too nervous anticipation of rain,
it becomes clear that this street
was not closed off for me.

so I leave the families
to the cool breezes they have
rightfully won from life.

and I head upstairs.
to apply for jobs, and eat
leftover pasta, and find my hill

that is worth climbing up
just to race down.

in cairo

poetry

in cairo they throw
rocks in the streets
and are stacking bodies
to rig the death count
to get the air time
and off the cement bullets
ricochet with the words
allah akhbar
young men hurl themselves
towards the crackling streets
looking up at red sky
hoping today is the day
and i hope there is something
for them there
i hope they get lifted off
the streets of cairo in some
bright, elegent light
and horns will play heavenly tunes
while their brothers
pose for the camera
screaming “allah akhbar”
and loosely bandage
the marytrd wounded
with his eyes glazing over
i hope he is floating with
the virgins and his dead
relatives in peaceful content
forever-bliss
and there are no stones to throw
and you will not have to say
anything
and they will write your name among
the dead with an emphasis and
the young souls will look to yours
in awe and say “I want to
go his way:
on a street-corner
for the cameras
as a hail-mary pass.”

Thursday

poetry

A melee
of soul eaters
flower pickers
world shapers
subterranean raiders
bleeding speeding through the universe
poking days

Monday
feverishly saying hello
friday
both ends burning
releasing life’s dye

wednesday
sparkling bubbling in a fluted glass
talking seam foam
heartaches
vapor trails
nature’s hard work

sunday
crawling
licking the dust of
a church’s floor

tuesday

these sweating bones aren’t real
nothing is
in the end

But…

Any day

God Hums