Every One Day (evergreen)

1.
There is a garden
where sweet seeds snuggle
and rain falls like a swooning lover
into the earth.

There was a seed
that under the perfect circumstances
would one day rouse from its slumber
to become the rarest,
most pointlessly stunning
bloom of wist and aerie.

One day
the sky was an abacus,
the sun in strained balance
with the clouds, with dust in the air,
worms self-germinating beneath.
And the seed felt compelled to grow.

That day the garden
was a page ripped haphazardly
from a fairytale.
The other blossoms
wilted, turned away,
and donned burlap.

By nightfall,
the new, bright flower
had already ashed over.


2.
Last week, I wrote our names in the A train very tiny, but in Sharpie. I thought as I wrote it that one day someone would find it, but by then I might not know you anymore. Que sera, sera.


3.
if i ever build a house
i want walls
of pine.

someone told me pine is a softwood.
oak is stronger.
i should use oak instead.
maybe pine for the kitchen table.

but oak trees are never full
in the winter months.
they are dead.
they are old people’s hands
pleading to the heavens:
more time!

pine trees are evergreens.

i want pine walls.
pine is a hardwood.
pines are green every day.
no matter what.


4.
The fairytale book
will have that page ripped out forever,
all because of that
stupid, magical, dead seed.


5.
I didn’t think I cared about the names. But I walked through the A train the next day and couldn’t find us. Then I remembered there’s more than one A train.


6.
there was a thunderstorm last night.
lots of pine trees fell over
on top of each other
and through people’s windows.

it made me angry to think
that such a hardwood
would not stand up to
a little wind and water.
might as well be deciduous
with a will that thin.

someone told me
the southern live oak
is an evergreen.

if i ever build a house
i want walls
of southern live oak.


7.
For only two bucks I spent the day riding trains with my sharpie under central park, new dramatists, sin sin. I tried not to waste time. I’d get on, write our names, and next stop get off. It was hours before I saw us five trains in a row and decided to go home.

Now, every “one day” we’ll race together like a forest fire beneath our restless city. Forever. No matter what.

into october

As a firm chill solidifies that which once pulsed
And a once full room becomes fuller with clutter,
Life is in one moment everywhere and the next
A self-doubting memory.

How much company I can be to myself
Is stretched by the degree of loneliness left,
The presence of vodka or any drink else,
Or simply my energy.

After seeing three such that were once bricks or stakes
And being so easily passed off and shuffled
No remorse, no revenge, no response at all,
I had no options left

But to lock myself into my room—the extent
Of all I now have and the world I now live in:
A vase of old flowers in water like clouds
From the one I can’t seem to forget.

i miss You

because the what comes after
is still more alluring
than the what is.

it isn't about a dream
or a crayoned fantasy
on construction paper.

it is a forgotten memory,
rustling like a fever
in the deep part of my bones

that i can't reach to scratch.
when i think of You
i think of the best times--

the ones that make all of this
such a beautiful wasteland,
a live wire of unbridled heartbeat.

remembering us then is different
than what they call faith,
because faith is believing

in that which cannot be proven.
i used to wake up in Your house
and eat breakfast in Your kitchen.

i've followed You to the secret place
and fallen asleep to the sound
of Your pen on the sky.

i will endure this summer camp of sorts
until the fever shatters my bones
like a prisoner making his escape.

then we will stay up
all night like we used to,
screaming and dancing,
laughing and sighing.

a song.

not poetry, but close enough. a song i wrote tonight...it sounds like a mix between jump, little children's "cathedrals," switchfoot's "let your love be strong," and the country of egypt in general...untitled.

if we existed...
if we existed...
if we could live above this life
i know i'd never cry
cause we'd never fight.

you make promises...
you make promises...
that only Superman could keep.
so although you mean well
i know they're always empty.

i remember in the beginning
we were selfless and so forgiving.
even time stopped to let us soar.
but what gets me down
more than the gravity,
is that we're perfect...
is that we're perfect...
but only circumstantially.

behind the sunrises...
behind the silences...
behind the endless day to day,
we aren't tired. we aren't worn out.
we're awake.

it's all so delicate...
it's all so delicate...
this balance we try to maintain.
but this is bigger than anything we could save.
we're such children in its face.

i remember in the beginning
we were selfless and so forgiving.
even time stopped to let us soar.
but what gets me down
more than the gravity,
is that we're perfect...
is that we're perfect...
but only circumstantially.

if we existed...
if we existed...
if we could live above this life.
i could wake up and be yours in the morning,
like i'm yours tonight.

i remember in the beginning
we were loving more than we were thinking
and reality was easily misplaced.
but what gets me down
more than the gravity,
is that you loved me
and we were perfect
but only circumstantially.

DEPARTURE by Louise Glück

The night isn't dark; the world is dark.
Stay with me a little longer.

Your hands on the back of the chair--
that's what I'll remember.
Before that, lightly stroking my shoulders.
Like a man training himself to avoid the heart.

In the other room, the maid discreetly
putting out the light I read by.

That room with its chalk walls--
how will it look to you I wonder
once your exile begins? I think your eyes will seek out
its light as opposed to the moon.
Apparently, after so many years, you need
distance to make plain its intensity.

Your hands on the chair, stroking
my body and the wood in exactly the same way.
Like a man who wants to feel longing again,
who prizes longing above all other emotion.

On the beach, voices of the Greek farmers,
impatient for sunrise.
As thought dawn will change them
from farmers into heroes.

And before that, you are holding me because you are going away--
these are statements you are making,
not questions needing answers.

How can I know you love me
unless I see you grieve over me.


**this is a poem from Meadowlands which featured a lot of poems based on the characters of The Odyssey, particularly Odysseus, Penelope, and Telemachus...this poem is from Penelope's persepective and just really spoke to me when I came across it last night.

untitled

there is a song.
i remember the day i wrote it.
the piano faced the quilt
and the sun was on my right shoulder.

i saw two men outside
with two infants
in the little kangaroo pouches.
they seemed happy,
comfortable,
free.
i thought they were together
and had perhaps adopted the babies.
lovers and their new children.

i wrote the song then.
it was brilliant, even i thought so.
the chords so heavy.
the melody like a rocket.
i loved it without thinking,
that instant.

afterwards i looked out and saw
the men and the babies
with two women.
their wives? more likely.
disillusionment can be a bitch.
most often in retrospect.

i remember the night i wrote
the alternate version
to that song.
draped in your hoodie
like a child in a collapsed tent,
smoking a black,
walking to buy a midnight snack alone.

it's funny because
the new words came so fast--
faster than the old ones.
but the old ones came from reality
and these new words were from somewhere else.
a place i could almost make out in my mind.
a place i thought i might be someday, i guess.

i came back with food.
i slept in your bed.
the new lyrics were an omen
that i didn't understand
because it was premature.

i wonder if i wrote both of them
because i loved the song that much.
because i knew i would want to
sing it forever and ever,
whether you came or went.

please

let me in on a secret.
let me in on a whim.
just open the damn door
and let me in.

piecing/peaceing

The tears you cried in preparation
were just as table salt as mine
upon discovering you'd become God
and put an end to life.

The pain those tens upon tens killed
as they fell like marbles in a jar
was greater than we knew by far.
Thank God that's over now.

A glass with the last kiss you gave
still burdened with the wine we'd aged
was all that felt alive as they
attempted to revive. Today

there's still no way to swallow
all you've done, nor understand
why if you thought you had it planned
you never thought to grab my hand.

obsidian

Salience is my sanctuary.
Something in the core
of me
is like the sun
but darker.

I move like a moth.
Stay still so long
you think I am dead.
Then light up.
Impossible to track.
Not hard to catch.
The fire goddess.

I have been more things,
new things,
since I’ve been without you.

I found the steam in me,
the calm rooted in heat,
the most rewarding quiet.
At the bottom of the ocean
I lie like a dutiful rug

until I miss you too much
and my blood is lava
and I scream up pumping through
the surface, the distorted mirror,
a volcano that I can burst out of.
For God’s sake,
Give me some air!
I can’t breathe underwater.

I chased myself
into redundancy
and turned island.
The tears I cried
were fever tears
that cracked my cheeks
as they slipped down shore.

I’m drowning in burning.
I can’t wait anymore.

retrograde

I was rather impressed with myself
when three quarters into a nine hour ride
backward in time
I realized I had yet to think of you.
How new of me.

Strapped to a blind bullet
with little distraction
outside one's own mind,
you had yet to enter mine.
I was grateful for that escape--
that such a thing exists.

Now as I drown
in this tiny mountain
covered in lights
reflecting off houses,
I relish the feeling
of being alone and knowing
I'm not really
missed.

BFF

the dance of learning secrets.
the burdens of allegiance.
oh the claustrophobia
that always
follows
loyalty.

a leak in the steel basin.
I cave in while you drain.
one day I will overflow
and they will
come to
know you.

backing up (for my sister, Julia)

Her boyfriend was trailing
and probably figured
she got a strong lead
and was already home.

But she was strapped and
sinking in, seatbelt on.
A baby left in the bath
with the water running
while mother runs
to get the phone.
Be right back.
But the lake swallowed her slow.
The bathtub ran over.

I got home.
It was dark,
and your car was
the only one missing.
You were late.
I thought of her.

The sound of your phone
ringing somewhere else in the house
pumped bitter and warm in my mouth.
I swallowed it and saw you
strapped and misplaced.
But before long,
your lights in the driveway.
Work ran over.

As this little town takes its turn
on the creaky wheel of fortune,
I will grab onto you
until my arms ache
and my fingernails burrow
in my palms.

february in harlem

1.
Every finger crisping,
crackling in the frost’s bite,
unhanding bricks and uncradling chain links
as the sun sidles behind the tenement.

The ivy loosens her grip
but only just enough
so the underbellies of each vein
can take a deep breath.

2.
tit tit tit tit tit tit
Little finch or sparrowbaby
hipping down the sidewalk,
gliding every hop or so
on the iced lemon cake.
Each time the basketball pounds
the cracked concrete,
the finchbaby tits.

3.
He sucked my second finger
mhmm mm mm
like he could make milk
come out under my nail.

I know yo maaaaayn
don’t work his tongue like this!
mhmm mm hm
I thought of the three bears.

The taste of my fingerprint
like curry or bay leaves.
His breath like tea steam
as I rocked in my seat.

How hot my nutmeg porridge
the morning he came knocking—
he knew the porridge was steam.
Did he know the oats were stale?

hm hm hm hm
Did he know them oats were stale?
Only one bowl in that pot
and not for him neither.

a case for mortality

I wonder if your flight attendants have New York accents or British ones.
I wonder if your plane is coming or going.
Maybe the flight attendants are neither
from Manhattan or Manchester.
And maybe they change how they speak
depending on their destination.
Welcome aboard, yall! when they head South
or Please turn off your mobiles when they fly to England.

They aren’t real you know.
They aren’t real until you can follow them home
and hear them curse at their dogs for
pissing on the couch again.
They are as real as the angels I prayed
to fly alongside your plane tonight.
Never back. Never forth.
Never just sometimes, but always.
Which is just as good as never.

I don’t know if I ever told you this,
but we think my dog has heartworm.
He hasn't seen a vet since he was a puppy.
He’s basically a wild dog now.
It’s strange he’s become almost saintly
just because I know he’s dying.
Sometimes I see him in the kitchen window
running through the pine trees,
chasing birds and armadillos.
There is a fight in him that is vindicated.
He is real. He’s living,
because he’s going.

In the next two weeks,
visions of you,
spiked tea in porcelain cups,
a busty British woman,
and her plush, red couch
will infiltrate my thoughts.
But that image is so much like your plane, you see,
so much like your flight attendants,
because it isn’t real.
My anxiety knows no beginning.
My conclusion jumping does not come and go.
It has always been.

There was a time when we were not.
Then a time when we were.
And now as we are dying, together, it seems
we are more alive than angels.
We are more precious than an Ibizan sunrise
or a champagne cork in the Mediterranean.
We are out of breath in the thicket of the pine trees,
pumping not just blood but worms, too.
It’s life, can’t you see?
Unless we die, love,
we never really were.
So let us die.