Poem Ending with a Phrase from Federico Garcia Lorca The last time I saw Lorenzo he was wearing a blind man’s glasses and holding the leash of a seeing-eye dog
though he isn’t blind and he doesn’t have a dog and his name isn’t Lorenzo but Bruce.
Who can explain why a man might dance on the ledge outside his office five flights above the Hudson River?
The city with five boroughs and two thousand bridges fits on one side of the coin my father gave me to give to a beggar.
It remains in my pocket as I look out the window on the day of my [...]
Either everything’s a valley, a jelly donut dimpled down the middle, or else everything’s
a collision of plates, crustal thickening on its way toward muscled mountains. Either everything’s way,
way, beyond mid-gallop or a rundown shack haystack- still, a dog-patch immobilizing glory, gumption, get up
and go. Either everything’s a sandy path leading to a dune-saving fence or nothing’s guarded, out of reach.
Which is worse: too many walls or not enough, the laciness of shams or an endless hallway of bare
jalousies, dead fly lounging on each lone pane?
All the worrier wants is love, like anyone else. But he won’t seize it for himself; he needs you to come to him, admiring the way he keeps the background safe for everyone. He can’t—maybe you’re right, he won’t—descend the pole into the heart of the burning house, the hotspot between the sheets. But someone fastidious must man the radar, someone, unlike you, who is happy in the lukewarm broth between choices. One part of him is forever holding his foot above its first step, waiting for the all-clear that can never come. Another part is waiting for you—he may move if you take his hand.
My Factless Autobiography
The grammarian chooses a place in the open air for arguments fiction runs sweet in my nostrils I inhale a failing air fleet four of them for to eat the milky crab the pudding proof is found in
I am the Assayer of Weights and Measures I am what I am because I am not something else I hold a lily in my hands it is not gross As a fabric is a historic surface I am propelled I touch bone & traffic in salt like minefields & the people we inhabit
Who but the most despairing among us will dwell on that point tonight? Good [...]
If not Princess, then Warden
Things start off well: I’m the warden and no one’s writing on the walls in shit. I encourage all inmates to grow a mustache like mine, a bit of sculpted punctuation curling beneath the nose, directing the reader of the face downward to the lips. With them, and to the fellow in the mirror, I say, “my sweat unbreakable you,” helplessly using the word “sweat” instead of “sweet,” the way a high-school girlfriend did once in a letter, writing “Sweatheart, are we still going to the jamboree?” We were not going to the jamboree, anymore, Sally Garrett. This morning, out by the smokestacks before school, [...]
There, reading against the traffic, a car crash between chapters.
Alphabet via street signs. C is for Con Ed.
Kids music meant an actual kid, singing to herself
past all the silent billboards.
Then those days—when you were starting out, as they say—you were sulfur
frozen at Odeon
when strapped to the masthead, every remark, aside, sharpened.
The table by the mirror reserved for all the baby lionesses.
And now. You are living the app. A pop-up. La Vida App!
Too many words, not enough ears.