Apr 2007
Styrofoam pellets dancing on asphalt
Fri Apr 20, 2007 Filed in: Recycled
thoughts
Sometimes beautiful
things happen. Today is a gorgeous day in Rochester.
I stood outside work and a light breeze blew
styrofoam packing pellets across the parking lot.
They were small and white against the sandy gray like
popped up beans. They made the most precious and
musical tinkling sounds against the asphalt. They
spun in circles, played dead, and tumbled over each
other like they were not the waste of a hedonistic
society. I was nearly overwhelmed with joy before
returning to the machine.
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my sudden heart
Fri Apr 13, 2007 Filed in: Poetry
my sudden heart
is physical presence.
I smell the rain;
I trust the insistent and cold
lake air breathing in
through the classroom windows.
the great black pianos sleep.
the faces of my colleges
are weary with empty devotion,
and I hold the silence
like an unwanted prize.
who am I?
I belong nowhere.
there is nothing
in my former cities
for me to envy.
it makes me laugh
to know
this is the way of God.
yet I listen
religiously
to the persistent melody
of a fool's dream.
is physical presence.
I smell the rain;
I trust the insistent and cold
lake air breathing in
through the classroom windows.
the great black pianos sleep.
the faces of my colleges
are weary with empty devotion,
and I hold the silence
like an unwanted prize.
who am I?
I belong nowhere.
there is nothing
in my former cities
for me to envy.
it makes me laugh
to know
this is the way of God.
yet I listen
religiously
to the persistent melody
of a fool's dream.
Poem for today in Rochester
Thu Apr 12, 2007 Filed in: Poetry
The
Desolate Field
by William Carlos Williams
Vast and grey, the sky
is a simulacrum
to all but him whose days
are vast and grey and --
In the tall, dried grasses
a goat stirs
with nozzle searching the ground.
My head is in the air
but who am I . . . ?
-- and my heart stops amazed
at the thought of love
vast and grey
yearning silently over me.
by William Carlos Williams
Vast and grey, the sky
is a simulacrum
to all but him whose days
are vast and grey and --
In the tall, dried grasses
a goat stirs
with nozzle searching the ground.
My head is in the air
but who am I . . . ?
-- and my heart stops amazed
at the thought of love
vast and grey
yearning silently over me.
I played with legos
Mon Apr 02, 2007 Filed in: Poetry
when I was a child,
I played with legos.
I would search my pile
(for hours even!)
for a single lego
the exact size
and shape
and color.
I am stubborn;
my ideas make demands of me.
sometimes I searched
(for days!)
aimlessly,
waiting for the
shiny plastic pieces
to speak to me.
the best ideas
were accicents,
two mismatched legos
clinging to each other
like needy lovers.
I have not changed much.
only now I search
the frets of a guitar
and the words of my native tongue.
I still nurture doomed cities
and build radical star-ships
full of cocky and gifted crewmen.
I know to fight for the words
and answer the demands of music.
I am stubborn;
I believe that the right piece
is somewhere in the pile,
and—dammit—I will find it!
but
the jumbled collection
also has a will
and its providence
is my voice.
I played with legos.
I would search my pile
(for hours even!)
for a single lego
the exact size
and shape
and color.
I am stubborn;
my ideas make demands of me.
sometimes I searched
(for days!)
aimlessly,
waiting for the
shiny plastic pieces
to speak to me.
the best ideas
were accicents,
two mismatched legos
clinging to each other
like needy lovers.
I have not changed much.
only now I search
the frets of a guitar
and the words of my native tongue.
I still nurture doomed cities
and build radical star-ships
full of cocky and gifted crewmen.
I know to fight for the words
and answer the demands of music.
I am stubborn;
I believe that the right piece
is somewhere in the pile,
and—dammit—I will find it!
but
the jumbled collection
also has a will
and its providence
is my voice.
old pocket-sized notebook
Sun Apr 01, 2007 Filed in: Poetry
I found an old
pocket-sized notebook
from my New York years.
I was not scared to
read the intimate thoughts.
first, a diatribe
of self-hatred
and desperate lyrics.
then, your name,
written in your cursive,
and how I could contact you.
the rest of the pages
were blank.
I carried the notebook
with me to a play this evening.
I wrote in it what
an Iraqi woman told me from the stage,
"the war is inside you."
I saw the smoke of the towers
from my backyard in Brooklyn.
I remember drinking screwdrivers
and feeling guilty.
the Iraqi woman meant
the war I haven't seen:
the one with smart bombs.
my smart bombs.
I wrote what she said,
"I love like I cannot breathe."
I will leave
the rest of the pages blank.
pocket-sized notebook
from my New York years.
I was not scared to
read the intimate thoughts.
first, a diatribe
of self-hatred
and desperate lyrics.
then, your name,
written in your cursive,
and how I could contact you.
the rest of the pages
were blank.
I carried the notebook
with me to a play this evening.
I wrote in it what
an Iraqi woman told me from the stage,
"the war is inside you."
I saw the smoke of the towers
from my backyard in Brooklyn.
I remember drinking screwdrivers
and feeling guilty.
the Iraqi woman meant
the war I haven't seen:
the one with smart bombs.
my smart bombs.
I wrote what she said,
"I love like I cannot breathe."
I will leave
the rest of the pages blank.