Monday, July 18, 2005

a summer haiku

on the train platform
a simple breeze is heaven
my clothes are sticky

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

I Am

I am Omar's heart growing arms and legs learning how to crawl.

I am Omar's ego remembering how to lie.

I am Omar's mouth full of donuts.

I am Omar's ears not listening to the breeze.

I am Omar's hands tapping on keyboards trying to make enough noise to overcome the voice in his head.

Friday, January 14, 2005

First Week of January

Spinning room, in whose feet do I anchor the final defeat of Love?
I have searched for it in the streets of my Loisaida, in the hearts of her vodka
bottles, in the smells of dust and progress, at the back door of death.
I've written poems riddled with bullet holes, held frank discussions with Jesus
about the nature of my demises, danced naked against the winds of winter.
What remains are cheap words, dollar store memories, a scratching nostalgia.

When the muses in my life release the beasts of white noise, it is nostalgia
for the taste of my blood that sets them free. Seems I can only love
myself these days, even if teeth of sweat and spittle split my winter,
even if I am chained to their faces for forgiveness, even if I vodka
my tears inside hollow leaves, whisper for the comfort of a rooftop Jesus,
anchor my toothless grief to him like a sonnet composed after death.

Today, the alarm bells are sleeping daggers against my ear. I cheated Death
from the comfort of a white room, resting in the womb of nostalgia.
Today, I will crucify myself without reason or spears, a perfect Jesus
in search of sweeter asphyxia. My feet will bleed the conquest of Love,
destroy every alias I have assumed, trouble the throats of burning vodka,
turn faces of white roses into prowlers of an endless winter.

These hollow teeth, a dirge; my neck, a lampost swirling in deep winter;
my strides; pounding the eardrums of my beloved; my curled hands, death.
How this world of wind and green fog trembles in teary visions of vodka.
The renewal of a smashed acorn, fallen from great height, births nostalgia
for full tables. Here I pause, reasoning at the edge, ponderous trenches of love
spread before me. Here I am, leaning from the temple roof, a perfect Jesus.

I am Picasso's lead clown, stumbling in my Loisaida, a dimestore Jesus,
looking for rats to redeem. I am the savior, anathema of winter,
bedraggled jester, trying to forgive myself for passion, to mystify a love
I wish I had. There is a wobbling muse watching me smile at death,
imagining me beautiful again. On her breath a rose of nostalgia
burns, a rescue ship melting frozen eyes with the unrelenting scent of vodka.

Spinning room, to whom do I dedicate the final triumphs of weary vodka?
I have claimed the kingdom in my skull, dull mantras chanting alone, Jesus
with no congregation. I no longer hear the winds of ripe nostalgia
crashing into my cerebellum, howling chains, numb to the gashes of winter,
indifferent and untrusting until the gathering proof of immense death.
This is the reality I have created, neck-deep in the ashes of love.

Tonight, the demons of nostalgia, pouring vodka
bottles into tributes of love on the sidewalk. Uneasy truce with Jesus.
Trudging forward, living winter, unafraid of death.

Thursday, January 06, 2005

shout out

shout out to dave who still cuts himself.
his life is without suture.

Thursday, December 23, 2004

11 days left

This is the day
This day
This is the day that consistency took a break

This is the day someone got up and gave
a pregnant woman a set on the bus or train

This is the day I was not thinking of you, yet.

This day most people were just a little bit more complacent about security.
A striking bundled-up blonde woman rushed into the ubiquitous corner coffee joint to stand in an a.m. line of 22.

More people drove to work.
Fewer people took lunch.
And about 10% went home early.

I was possibly late for a job that was helpful enough to pay my rent working only 3 months or so of the year.

I paid my rent and my health insurance.
I dreamed of being Angelina Jolie’s abandoned vacation lover.
At 9am you could still make out a ¾ moon over the river, the field, the treetops, Macy’s

Some people read the free morning paper, others paid for the post times news.
A day several professional athletes let people down expectedly.

This day a movie that cost more than the folks have in Tonga was said to be achingly dull yet still was seen by more people than the population of the Republic of Kiribati.

A guy in an elevator, hallway, lobby was listening to music too loudly, but several people did not notice as they were listening to their own personal soundtracks.

This day two people saw each other across the street and nodded continuing along to where they were headed.

You bought me a gift that I had told you I wanted.
The day all things yellow disappeared, just for a flash.

This was a day without many surprises.

Only 1 person attempted to walk on water.

And in a curious act of faith a woman sewed a picture of a longhaired white Jesus on to the back of jean jacket.

A lot of money was made by a few people at the expense of others.

This is the day you did it.

More lights were lit, stayed on late, and electric bills soared.

You forgot some things, like your piano teacher’s dogs name,
but did not tell me.
A man and a woman were tossed from a dive bar for smoking
in the boys’ room at 3 a.m. and never would fondle again.

My brother realized something essential about sponges that he would not tell anyone for 17 days.

This is the day the wind blew cold on the face of everyone who walked west.
People avoided going west, if they could.

A new soft drink, shoe, personal electronic device, genetic discovery was revealed and improved the life of some, but not many, instantly

This day an actor cried.
You returned a few calls and several emails,
though you found emails more impersonal.
People read, ate, died, drove, climbed, ran, worked,
slept too long and missed an interview, smiled and laughed.

Words were written.
I forgot 5 or more things that could have made this better.

Dogs messed up the sidewalks of the city. Some of it was picked up.

The day the trash increased.
The produce mister at the super market misted every hour

This day it was cold so we held each other tight and hoped that what we hoped would be the same or at least very complementary.

The barley mushroom soup was too hot.
This is the day you used 2 gallons of water to brush your teeth—times 2.

You had fresh breath 47% of the day.
You kissed me.

I wondered if this was too much to put in a card.

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

Necklace II

The charm he gave you hangs about your neck like the stench of piss applied coat over coat down the leg of an abused mental patient praying to Judas.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

Something From The Archives That Never Worked

At 27 the act of talking to your parents affirms that life moves forward
At 22 I drove past your grave by a quaker meeting house in ambler Pennsylvania. there was no snow, only fallen leaves and a wind that blew through scarves.
At 23 and 24 I forgot you.
At 21 I wrote a love poem for a dead girl on her birthday.
At 19 I cried in a memorial service in the sweat of June.
At 28 nothing makes sense to me in March.


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