Storypoems from the Lower East Side

Untitled

storypoems — Thu, 26 May 2011 15:16:28 +0000

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

storypoems — Wed, 24 Jan 2007 13:29:04 +0000

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

storypoems — Thu, 03 Aug 2006 06:30:22 +0000

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

storypoems — Sun, 26 Jun 2005 06:12:19 +0000

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

storypoems — Fri, 03 Dec 2004 13:42:32 +0000

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.

Carport

storypoems — Sun, 31 Oct 2004 21:41:33 +0000

Bare walls and rolling down hills, climbing
back to the top for a tumble. Holding 4th of July sparklers,
ghosts in the goblin. A picture of tension I never
had is recognized in pumpkins of memories. My mother holds
her breath, my father exhales too loudly.

These are her people.

There are valves that release
and close off blood that ties us together in times of
inconvenience, insecurity, and unreason. I am inside the currents
of her joy and surrender. Her desperate need to
empower me shines on the surface.

He mows the lawn to break away fallen leaves, to leave the
women to their kitchen talk. He is outnumbered in his
old age. A woman is missing, I am standing next to her footprints
in the home she never abandoned. We sneak cigarettes in the
carport. She hands me the lighter, asks me to ash
like a lady, we laugh. I wish her ghosts away from her
neverhome, haunted with the joy and unreason of
her people, my people.

Happiness Deli

storypoems — Thu, 21 Oct 2004 01:06:32 +0000

Amin is behind the counter,
gold teeth and long curly hair, a rockstar
mustache. Latin boys walk in, Amin says
hey, Frankie, mi amigo, como estas?
Frankie says, bien, bien, turkey hero. Amin makes
it for him. Cop walks in, says Ma’assalama,
Amin says Ma’assalama. The cop asks for some
more lessons on Mohammed, Amin explains
and Habib makes all the coffees. Old black man
walks in, says, what up, homes. Amin says,
hey, what up Holmes, ham sandwich tonight?
The man says, nah, Yankees lost. I can’t eat
tonight. Amin understands. Crazy schizo named
Lucky walks in, selling a radio from 1985. Ten bucks,
works and everything, he says. Amin tells him,
no man, thanks, we got radio here in Happiness.

At Clinton and Stanton, Monday morning

storypoems — Mon, 13 Sep 2004 04:50:27 +0000

I walk up Clinton Street to buy
a pack of cigarettes at four a.m. On the
corner under the streetlight are
two people encased in each other like the war
is over and the street is celebrating.
Their bikes dropped beside them,
lay abandoned for the occasion.
The scene of a crime.
I want to know.

They ran into each other after
many months of not, dropped to lock up.
They rode into each other, invited
guests of circumstance.
They rode home together, a simple
thing creates this scene.

I lower my eyes to the street.
In a pause, he says to her,
I wouldn’t do anything with you
unless it was in color,
and I wish it true.

Radio stitches

storypoems — Mon, 30 Aug 2004 01:56:42 +0000

Making stitches,
needling like the sting in my face
when the frisbee hit it on the Great Lawn,
surrounded by giggles and little swimming stars.
I want to reach through the fabric,
ripple it
with my stitches, giggles,
make waves like that piece of pain
running from my ankle to my ass.

It’s OK because when I breathe
it touches you across radio waves hijacked.
In here we can pretend that it’s OK
to feel grass between toes,
make every chant funnier
by ending it with “in my pants.”

I don’t want the view from above.
Down here we can fling raisins,
origins unknown,
into garbage cans and we can
make popsicle pirates in the park
spread eagle, defenses down and out
with the wind of my breath on your radio waves.

Cupcakes

storypoems — Fri, 06 Aug 2004 19:18:57 +0000

Ticket on a windshield, Ohio on Stanton Street. My name
in the newspaper, wandering thoughts passing by like the guy
with the geri curl and his arm around his tapered-legged pants
girlfriend, now or two decades ago. Sixteen years ago,

there were riots here, carving out names scratched into
film, now ten days till my birthday, I am reminded:
I wasn’t there. Trying to keep up in green track pants I
don’t remember liking, I want to bring cupcakes to school,

except school isn’t a building anymore. A musty, sweet
nap on a couch in the back room is summer vacation, I owe
everyone everything. An ex-boyfriend skirts down Essex.
To be expected, I got banned from dating on Ludlow centuries ago.