Untitled May 26, 2011
Posted by storypoems in everything.add a comment
Take me with you.
Tell me what you had for breakfast, show me I’m
human with your urgent optimism, with your links and your lolcats
and your monstrous balloon sculpture art,
take me and listen.
Post that quote I like, the one about the foolish mistaken
notion that we are all
separate from
one another. Take me.
Done with isolation prescribed to me, ether
penetrates these crafted culture walls.
You find me
and say: you are not alone anymore.
Out there, not long ago, I was screaming into
nothing, broadcasting, waiting for my pheromone signal
to come back, tell me I’m not crazy
after all.
Now, maybe I’m addicted to this stupid blinking light but it means I’m holding
you with me.
We dig Pavlov here.
I want you to blaze info flow into the grooves
of my fingertips. Make me feel revolution in my bones, stop
jacking me off with silly antics,
blind me with delight instead.
Make me hurt with overload.
I was alone before.
Take us with you.
Rig this game, let your crafted walls fall, make
the conversation
yours, at long last.
I see what you did there.
Hear me. You have no choice, not
anymore. We’ll whisper into cultures’
new ears, we will tell them what we had for breakfast
how it is here in
these shoes,
and what we will do about it.
The relationship between heat and gravity January 24, 2007
Posted by storypoems in brooklyn, nyc.add a comment
We have the kind of heat
in our old tenement inspired by slumlords
of the immigrant poor’s memory. The kind
that clanks its way into oblivion
degrees, makes your nostrils beg
for saline, makes rice paper blinds
above the radiator blow in the breeze.
The window is shut.
Nora, the subletting French exchange
student helping to gentrify the 4th
floor, knocked on my door last night
just 5 minutes after a fantastic crash
shook the dust out of the drywall.
I need help, it fell, I cannot.
In her living room, I laughed. They don’t
have air conditioners in France. Our heat was
too much for Nora, she opened the
window. The A/C dangled outside by its
circuit-breaking cord, like an anvil,
like a grand piano.
We hauled it in.
I showed her: this is how you close
the heat down in our building.
Essex Street Market August 3, 2006
Posted by storypoems in crowd pleasers, everything, LES, my favorites, nyc.add a comment
I ran into Henry today, he owns the
Essex Street Market building.
Smells like old cigars, matted dreads
and stale construction. A hot city day,
breathing sidewalk and tar.
Henry told me his plan to screw
the vulture capitalists
was to put a high-rise
of low-income
housing on top of the market,
power it with solar panels –
“let those hotel bastards
look at us then!”
He said, “You don’t kill
the goose that laid the golden
egg cuz then you got no
more eggs.”
He said, “I remember when
I was young
and I wanted to be rich,
so I went out
and got rich.
Big fuckin’
deal.
I remember the first time I kissed
a girl and the time after that
and the time after that and
it was all in my head,
do you
understand?”
pine June 26, 2005
Posted by storypoems in everything.add a comment
cracked, cut down, raw
i am counting with you the rings
while the sap seeps
out, drips and decorates
your fingertips, smiling,
counting, one
two
thirty
Event horizon December 3, 2004
Posted by storypoems in everything, nyc.5 comments
Sneaking through barred windows over fire
escape, barbed wire on roof next door catches glinting
sudden sunshine after early December rainstorm.
Furious event horizon passes over with the
speed of NYC rush hour pedestrian traffic.
Wind kicks in, knocks me down in the
crosswalk of Broadway.
I knew it was coming.
