poetry

when i ran away, rachel robinson

poetry

if i could live
16 again
i would meet you
in the open field
with your boys
at 2 or 3 am
and knowing then
what i know now
i would close my
laptop lid
and walk miles
in the cold country
darkness and
fight you with
everything i had

even if your boys
came in, as i
had feared
and stomped me
to pulp
i would lie my
bloodied face
on the thick,
dew covered grass
of my hometown
and laugh a crazy laugh
and spit the blood
out and laugh

and if you didn’t
kill me,
i would be better
for that

maybe better, some
how
than i am today

maybe i wouldn’t shake
or worry so much
maybe i’d be a better
man.

becoming

poetry

a lengthy buzz ricotches
between my eyes-
I hurtle from the bed
before the second splits,
lights on, shoe
in hand, manic
with mosquito possibility.
black comforter
is shrunk into a crack,
pillows launched into closet,
hands lusting to smash frantic,
too late. The itch,
the unbearable itch
pistoned into dwarf bumps
begins. Left arm, three bites.
Right arm, five. Forefinger
marred, my back
one big bug bite, pulsating
scratch down my veins.
I blanche and blotch pink,
speckled skin crawling
so fast it vibrates.
I can feel them on me,
one million tiny feet
caressing, digging
thirsty, penetration,
a well is spring
I lose myself, straws
sticking out into lips
red like I’ve never
seen before.

The windows are sealed.

I check under the bed.
Gestated swarm
fills my mouth,
I cough out MOSQUITO,
legs caught in my teeth
whole body surging
bug wave washes over me, clinging
to every vein. Three
fly up my ear
and my brain goes MOSQUITO
bones buzzing I claw wings
from my back, fly
through the crack in the door.

What is that light and why
is it so beautiful?
Where did all these legs
come from?
The itch
is gone.
But the thirst,
the incredible thirst.
I drink,
and I drink,
and I give nothing back.

on josh at harvey’s

poetry

josh said “what?” to himself
dipped in disgust as we
crossed the boulevard

sometimes i use my body
to play with the universe

josh was disgruntled with
that,
as some can be,
raised in a modern
anal retentive middle
white class up-
getting

that too is the murky
gene pool i awoke in

josh would talk freer
and more openly with me
when i used my body
to play a human-being

just like at my job where
i tickle change from pockets

that night and through
alcohol he would forget
even more that i was actually
light newly freed from the
sun talking his language
and reminscing on
being human

and i like having friends
because,
it multiplies the
positivity

krokodil

poetry

i first heard your name the
winter of my returning home

you were the promise of respite,
a gentle wave lapping on the shore

your words were hyperbole and
placeholders for others and
you said i didn’t have to stay
or that you could go and

some years later it is finally
the morning after
the waves are garbage trucks
the sunlight is acidic
and my arm is rotting
from the paths you traveled,
krokodil

do something

poetry

the door is closed
i lie in a sugary filth
i dream of international politics
yet
the possibilities remain unheeded
the apathy in the air
fossilizes the skin

do something different
than you’ve done before
maybe it won’t leave you
empty and hungry
and lying in a cheap
sugary filth

do something or you
will be frozen in
time,
gasping for breath
with stone lungs whose
efficiency is massively
degraded

do something at all and
push a wave into the
maddening ocean and
try not to cringe
when it comes back
changed by the distance
and its intent foreign

do something so they all
stop staring.

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.

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.

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.”