because you're you,
she said standing there, shivering in the cold
arms around him.
such a mess, such a mess
everything they spoke of, discussed,
hashed out, hammered out
thrown away.
because you're you, i can't help it she says.
why can't she?
he walks the other way, painfully, slowly,
still believing, yet still walking.
they wake in the morning, cold air leaking
through the window sills, chilling a foot,
a shoulder left uncovered by the blankets
one eye, then the other opened, looking back at him.
this is what he is holding out for,
the forever in this.
laughing, they stroke each others skin,
soft, pale from winters darknesss.
her back, alabaster, with golden brown flecks , worthy
of cathedrals, beautiful,
they talk about nothing, plans for the day, going
to the ocean, laying wrapped round each other
for fear of falling into the abyss.
his face burried in her shoulder,
hands clutching in the warmth of her legs,
the smell of skin and sleep.
the day begs to begin, yet they fight the pullings
of friends, and parties to attend.
standing, backed into him, looking back for a kiss.
and then on their seperate ways.
ok so im biased,
but maybe the reason so
many stories, the ones on broadway,
on the silver screens of hollywoodland,
on the pages of of the heart bound with string
take place in this beautiful, dirty place called new york.
it reminds me of a tangerine,
while working with cement, steel, rocks
and nails.
out in the cold, my hands cracked and bleeding,
stained and dirty
sitting with some guys i know,
i work with,
i sit at the bar with.
after eating our sandwichs, reclined on a
bucket upside down, boots crossed way out front, however
far away my legs are long.
another guy sits, indian style.
one paces nervously and the chatter is brief,
scores of games from the nite before.
talk of childish antics in the firehouse, at the bar,
in the sharehouse.
someone has a bag of tangerines.
'want one'?
'sure'?
it was the brightest thing on that job site.
orange, fresh, alive.
we were caked with mortar, saw dust, oil from sawing, drilling steel
I beams up in the sky.
backs stiffining up in the cold wind.
the tangerine was sweet, full of juice.
biting into the meat, the sweet juices run between my
fingers, htting the cracks.
the stinging.
the sting from that sweet flavour, amongst all of
the dirt, grime.
that was progress, the dirt, the grime, the broken backs
i think you
can figure what the tangerine was.
it is the heart of an empire,
though not of a conquering kind.
but one that goes forth, layed bare upon the rocks,
to embrace any willing to open their arms.
with the beauty of a cherry blossom blizzard on april's
breeze.
going out into the india of my mind,
i see the power of belief, of faith, we have.
of faith in goodwill, and brotherhood.
though the darkness tries to blot out
the sun of hope, the stars of love,
they cannot be extinquished.
there is a hunger for affection, creation,
beauty, trembling intimacy.
it is with these, in our shirt pockets,
we drive forward, yearn to run 'cross fields of
sun and dandilions,
to climb the cragged ice covered summits of the earth,
and swim the desert sands ancient kings.
it is the empire of the heart,
poured out to run through your fingers, drip down
upon your knees.
it was you who were poetry,
to me.
when i did not put pen to the page,
it was my fingers that would etch sonnets
across your shoulders, down your back.
my eyes would see the meter
of my affections, reflected in you.
my love,
as if
spoken softly, with voice lit by candle lite,
or boastfully in auditoriums in public address.
it was the haiku on your lips,
soft, warm, and lingering
or sharp, biting, and frenzied
where i could pick passion
from your breath, alluring and foreign.
for it was you, for whom i would keep the hours, of
lamplite and lovers, to practice this, this beauty of
the heart, spoken with the body, the eyes, in concert.
written for you and
i alone.
it was you who are
poetry
to
me.
hurtling along the expressway, up from
the south shore of long island
it came into view as i ascended upon the rise
around kissena ave.
first the worlds fair, and i felt as if i could
carry the globe myself.
it was a beautiful sun day Saturday.
and the city had audrey hepburn, and
george peppard written all over it.
it is never tiring, the city, the way she looks.
timeless really.
under the river i went, popping out in the middle
of the quiet weekend noise.
Midtown never looks as good,
as it does on a beautiful fall weekend.
people strolling along the avenue, holding hands,
walking dogs, sitting, drinking coffee
morning jogs.
the pushcarts roll infront of their
vendors along the streets
and i think of pea shooters and intense battles from
a book of my childhood.
i cross the rock inbetween the hudson, the east river the long, thin finger like
rock that whitman sang his praises about so long ago.
and down beneath the other river and out into
jersey.
i leave the city behind, pressing on
into the heart of the garden state.
i day dream of love lost, and love yet
to be found. i dream of dances among
candle lit evenings, alone, the two of us.
love, it is something that is on my mind of late. finding love, losing love, it finding us when we are least expecting it. how does one measure love? is it how many mornings you wake up with your arms wrapped around someone, face buried in her beautiful hair. is it how many tears wet ones pillow in the quiet of nite after losing that person? just a quick blurt, work's going well and everything else is good, strange, on hold, in limbo.
i too dream of canadian nites
with the quiet hum of american radio
purring over the heaters keeping the windows
from frosting over, keeping us from seeing
our breath in the car.
we pull over to the roadside bars,
stomping our boots free of the slush and
snow, shaking the cold off
our sholders as we walk in the door,
ready to drink, and laugh
and feel the soft hips and cheeks
of rosy lipped girls. with sweet lovey doed
eyes, knowing no more, no less than we.
all ready to dance, listen to juxeboxes
belt out the tunes that are the songs
we will dance to, fall in love to,
discover the wonders of our bodies to.
maybe all in the same nite for those lucky
enough.
the wind of our youth, hitchhiking
from the coasts, cross the prairies, navigating
the mountain passes as the heavy winter
skies clear and the brown moon climbs higher in the sky
cleaning itself off, whiter than the freshly fallen snow
some stand outside watching their breath pass
in the air, cold, sharp as glass, the breath so heavy
casting a shadow neath the moonlite.
the bar door opens, closes, and the smells of smoke, beer
sweat drift slowly out on the sounds of
clinking glasses and racous laughter and bop.
the light from within is soft, muted by the dark ruddy leathers,
the heavy stained woods worn from the coat sleeves
of men stopping off on their long wild rides into frontiers of
the provinces, the west.
these canadian nites are american nites too.
the border, the only thing that seperates the people.
but it doesn't really, cause' the wind skips free, dancing the dervish
of wild lusty youth.
