12.22.08 (day 12)

on the a train
with other holiday travelers,
atmosphere “always coming back home to you”
shuffled into my ear space.
it felt like destiny
until the canceled flight ruined it.

the cats were surprised to see me
home so soon;
i hate to tell them,
but tomorrow i will drive.

12.21.08 (day 11)

he’s the kind of person
who reads
8 books
at once,
not because he can be meticulously attentive
to each one,
but because
there’s a big difference
between a day meant for reading poems
and a nonfiction day.

today he will read an
entire novel,
maybe steppenwolf
or the catcher in the rye…
it’s too exhausting
to go outside.
the weather is shit,
and besides,
he doesn’t have anywhere to go.

12.20.08 (day 10)

remember dubbing this the season of big hits?

we were on the bridge
at western,
as usual,
and you decided to call winter the season of big hits,
because when  you exhaled
after hitting a joint
your breath combined with the smoke
to form a monstrous cloud of
laughter.

now people just get arrested there.
a place that makes me nostalgic
like madonna singing,
“this used to be my playground”…
but apparently good old-fashioned fun
has been outlawed in ohio.

there is at least one picture of it.

12.19.08 (day 9)

you showed up unexpectedly at an ageless birthday party
somewhere in the rocky terrain of my childhood,
presents strewn across my parents basement,
but they could not hide you.
you were the kind of microphone given to little kids
by selfless parents
who must’ve thought that giving smiles to children was better
than the peace of sunday afternoon they had previously known.
you had a stand with multi-colored lights,
and when we stood on my bed
we were just the right height
to be seen dancing in the mirror.
my first love,
it’s no wonder i return to you now,
when there are so many things i do not say
but prefer to send hurdling carelessly toward unsuspecting audiences,
because you shape lies better
than i ever could.
you always wanted to be the center of attention,
with your flashy lights
and rakish demeanor.
you have the attitude i have always wanted.
when i am hiding behind you
singing “lovely rita”,
or telling stories that only i know are real,
the ring around my finger
slips casually onto your own,
and we are married in time.
we have courted since childhood
and now i hold your grown-up curves,
knowing that only
you and i
can make this quiet love.
your hand is the only happiness i’ve known,
mine in yours prevents oncoming sleep,
and the way you grow longer
when i finger you
makes me think that even i
am capable of forgiveness.
i want to press your image
into my skin
that you may live there with me
forever, but i cannot harness
your drunken ridiculosity,
or the unmistakable taste of belligerence
as you direct symphonies in my mouth.
your spirit cannot be fettered
not even by the amps
that give birth to your
coital screams,
or is that me,
turning orgasms into confessions with the flick of a tongue…
please, love, no one outside these walls
understands our sado-masochistic relationship
and they will call it domestic violence when you love me,
because i cannot explain
the bruises you have already left.

12.18.08 (day 8)

it takes two
double shots of beam
to have the same conversation
every night
of this week.
one to push my heart
out of my mouth,
another to wash it down.
and there will always be things i won’t say,
syllables that teeter
on the edge
of my tongue,
only to be swallowed along with the rest of my fears.
if i could, i would say it all at once,
but there will be no such denouement.

(from the outside:)
he doesn’t believe that
it is possible
to hold her hand,
but he will continue to
let her voice slip down his throat
and gently extract secrets from his soul.
he is not the same person
who brought her flowers.
she doesn’t expect luck,
he has never held
cards far from his chest.

if i thought
we were the kind of people
to stop a tsunami dead in its tracks,
i would kiss you
right now,
but i am not inclined to perform such heroic deeds

12.17.08 (day 7)

my world
opens and closes
like subway doors,
and traps just as many people in its embrace.

12.16.08 (day 6)

dear noah,

your album is just the right length
for midnight walks on a monday night, and
with your voice inside my skin
i can almost forget my own.
remember the year we first met?
louis lived in the blue house
at the wrong end of beech st., by the high school,
and you won people over
by singing a song about fucking
that wasn’t really about fucking,
(or was it?).
we were both just kids then
with dreams as big as the monkeys on our backs,
and no idea what the word truth meant,
let alone what it implied.

and when that same song
comes through my headphones today
i tread lightly on new york’s heavy streets,
because i have heard the past in your voice—
and this is not that.

when i haven’t left the big apple in 6 months
and i’m getting close to nostalgia
i put on “streetlights” and think
about the cities i’ve loved and lost,
now numbers etched on tight skin,
and i don’t feel the need to drink
but it’s quicker than counting sheep.

sometimes, after a few shots of beam
on a shitty weather night,
i do a downtown carolina waltz
and know that no matter what
i have thirty nine and a half minutes to dance
before the world comes back to life.

12.15.08 (day 5)

sometimes i just eat peanut butter
because it’s easier than cooking
and on those days
i know
i still have a lot of work to do.

12.14.08 (day 4)

the first half of a biographical poem for brooklyn.

brooklyn,
they say you’re gritty,
but i prefer textured.
new york is an overbearing father
with a long line of lonely babys mamas.
brooklyn, you whisper the names of your mothers slowly,
your history, a mantra.
call them:  poverty, ennui, desperation, colonialism, persecution, hope.
you are the illegitimate child of 1,000 dutifully fruitful fucks.
looked over by lady liberty,
with neighbors like the east river,
long island,
and that bitch queens–
you are trapped in tightly packed tenement walls,
seeping through brick
and concrete,
you refuse to be contained.
brooklyn, your arms display bad habits.
the track marks of flatbush, atlantic, 4th ave,
pockmarked from discarded gum
and sunday morning vomit.
brooklyn, we love you because
of these things,
not in spite of them.

12.13.08 (day 3)

the c from west 4th
to lafayette.
salad with avocado.
spaghetti squash.
it’s saturday night,
and i’m already over this week.
let’s play a cutthroat game of uno
and watch the elephant in the corner grow larger.

down cumberland,
atlantic, underhill
to st. johns.
whiskey, tequila, pbr,
and a bowl of pico.
mos def says:
“sometimes i feel like i don’t have a partner,
sometimes i feel like my only friend is the city i live in…
it’s beautiful brooklyn.
as long as i live here
believe i’m gon’ fly…”

past grand army plaza,
prospect park,
down berkeley.
there’s nothing better than a good walk
on a december night,
stretching legs and lungs and heading toward
the unspoken truth of poem:
no longer looking for the past.

i thought it was funny when you looked at me that way.
your crooked smile
hurls accusations,
knows i never tell the full truth.