Dancing

poetry

There’s a girl in the corner
in the back
she’s the only one that’s dancing
but she’ll dance all by herself
and all night,
I would wager,
(Well, I’d probably lose that
bet on a technicality, but still)
and I’d put a lot of money down.

and it’s a funny thing, that
she’s the only one who’s really
moving,
‘cuz she’s the only one I’d
like to dance with anyway.

There’s a certain sort of freedom
being the only one in a
crowded show and
dancing.

I won’t dance with her.
I wouldn’t want to ruin it.

Actor

poetry

As the world rotates he mutters incantations:
Poised (while nearby, people splutter
And mumble) he observes their demonstrations
And flicks a cigarette to the gutter.

Collar stiff, stubbled, alert, he muses
Of lonely nights in brothel-lit bars
Where brave thoughts came to bruises
And sodden heads watched passing cars.

The fire inside him has no destination
Or place to go where fuel is cheaper.
The days are a spoon-fed lamentation
That blur and flex toward their reaper

But life is his game with its daily grind
He paints its tones with his body and mind.

signed: ungratefully yours, freakyNEwchild

poetry

You spread out my bones on the church’ s floor, and cry I did not do. You heard the future whisper, and left me alone in the shadows; you stole my sparks, and burn I do not do.
Yet there you are … knees knelt, teareyed and candles lit, looking back at me when all I want is to forget you. 
You have pulled me in by the last thread, I shall no longer watch you ebb at the break of the day. Or wonder in sadness as you turn me into a dagger for your heart to stab. 
Across the frontier of you and I, beyond memories and darkness, I shall light up into a thousand of fires and plane over your sins and virtues.

A Year (for me, at least)

poetry

Three hundred and sixty-five days later
And still here.
Still going strong.
Better than ever.
With probably a thousand pieces
Of improbable prose behind us.
(Holy crap, that’s a lot!)
A troupe of awesome men
(and one women)
Putting the pedal to the metal
Or more like, pen to paper,
Or actually, fingers to keyboards
Churning out poem after poem
After poem after poem:
The good (a buttload)
The great (a few)
The bad (no one asked you anyway)
The ugly (that’s the way we like ‘em)
And as it’s been said before:
“Hemorrhaging brilliance daily.”
So though it’s needless to say,
But I’ll say it anyway:
It’s been an honor to share this
Pixilated plane of poetic interweb
Known on the streets as “the Sieve”
With you
Twisted,
Hilarious,
Ridiculous,
And ingenious,
Gents.
You guys (and gal) rock!

pining for the 424

poetry

swimming in a man-made lake
on my plastic factory break
“oh god!” i say feeling like a snake
after i intake the toxic rape
of the buildings cutting in
to the sky’s real estate

oh the m t p streets covered
in feces and empty seeds
all signs hiding an awful
deceit, promising weight
behind the word compete
feeding an off-tempo beat
to the hungry and weak

but the whistle blows and
i suppose i should put on
my clothes and be composed
for my home groans for the
oil and bones and keeping it
fed is part of a human being’s
growth (or a human being a ghost).

bent

poetry

your life at two feet six inches
all for a curable disease at 1
your legs fold now like jello
in half across a board you use
in a wheelchair-unfriendly home
raising your child
(you were lucky enough to bear)
in hopes he walks straight
through every day

Your table

poetry

Boy, do you realize how crooked your table is?
When I entered the kitchen, it was the first thing I noticed.
Not the Everest of smoking hot classics
Or the expensive gin, although it did look tempting.

We sat at that landslide-waiting-to-happen for forty minutes
While the cat watched nearby, its glassy eyes diverted
One eye on us and one fixed on the wobbly leg,
Waiting for a downpour of cutlery, tail set and ready to run.

A year later, I bet that poor table is still holding on.
Under salt and pepper, books, red wine and elbows.
Wondering, with all its splinters and tomato sauce stains
How someone so shrewd, could be so damn neglectful.

the end is nigh

poetry

and i will not repent
my enjoyment found in
the sight of your leaving,
relishing the view
of your backside
metaphorically walking away
out of my life for good,
never to be met again
on this side of eternity
or on the other,
allowing heaven
to be heaven still,
secure in the knowledge
that you won’t be there.

Stay Dry

poetry

I saw three men standing
in the shadows by a swimming pool
in rags and coats from the
previous season, breathing
heavy fingers fighting open
pop-top beer cans whiskers
shaking under the wind’s slight
duress and I stopped.

there they stood by the pool
forlorn considerations of
jumping right in, cans and coats
be damned. Of course they
chose to stand and eye instead.
Only a fool leaps and leaves it
all behind, they said. Yet there they
were, with nothing but coats and
cans and rags and whiskers and
the opulent gall to say anything.

They did not jump. They only drank
and stood and eyed and sighed.

But I will enjoy this swimming pool,
for I left my coats and rags
in someone else’s town

French Press

poetry

When I said,
“God this is yours, I’m giving it all to you,”
You turned my world upside down.
Starting in my toes they tingled
To sensations ambling in my ankles
That tightened in my shins—
Taut Charlie Horse’s without pain
Pushing past my tensioned thighs
Swirling to the tip of my spine
Splashing into my tottering stomach
Surging around my quivering lungs
Ascending beyond my pulsating heart
Catching in my straining esophagus
Lifting my buoyant arms skyward
Pressure coursing to my startled eyes
And finally, though it only took a moment
Through my head you compressed
The last remnant of my resistance
And poured all of me out.

The Messenger

poetry

It’s hard to hate the messenger
even when he only carries lies
and lies and
bullshit in a shoulder-bag

Perhaps that’s the real message,
or the one worth hearing anyway.
In any case, I’ll try not to hate
the messenger.

But I will wait for him
to bring me some good news

jalopy

poetry

i drove this rusty bucket down
what apparently was the wrong
way on a one way street, i noticed
because all of the ladies with their
children were dropping their jaws

i grinned because they look funny
with their mouths wide, waiting

my grin says be prepared

i was having a wicked conversation
that stuttered and stopped like
my old jalopy, i’d keep going
over the same lines driving
the wrong way and eventually
they’d get me (i knew)

i had the gumption but not
the guts to just gas it when they
pulled up behind me screaming,
waving their batons talking
about one way streets and
their directional nonsense

behind bars i dream of driving,
still.

magnetic

poetry

lunate, you say, holding my wrist
between your practiced thumb and forefinger
ulna, radius, humerus, your light brown hand sliding
eloquently up my arm
clavicle, gliding up then down, scapula, resting now
vertebrae C1 through T5, your hand descending
like my eyelids

—

gloved hands held
we step down into the station
flakes of snow, finite emissaries,
clinging to your coat’s black wool
a man on a bench
plays the ehru to no one—
a string snaps
i lay my head on your shoulder
breathe in the scent of winters passed

—

bundled on the boat’s stern
we’ve been watching for hours
shielding your eyes from the sun and peering into the waves
you say, nobody’s there
a pelican, the sky’s sole occupant,
disappears over the horizon
and lingers in my thoughts
as i sip loudly from the juice box you packed
i wonder
what monsoons he’s seen
i silently bid him Godspeed
–there, you say, pointing
i struggle to see; but then see
sprays of water, fins slicing crests and troughs,
elemental black bodies
lifting and dipping in slow sequence

—

i am writing the last line:
the cat dives
across the page
i pick her up and replace her
on a window sill overlooking a red oak budding
find you in our bed still sleeping
kiss you on the forehead, return to my desk
brush hairs from the page
whose blank space now feels antarctic