October 16, 2006

On a Lost Manuscript

When I sat on a bench in Union Square Park
and hammered out 12 pages in two hours,
I'd thought, "Ah! I am a writer."
Then, I thought, "Nah,
I just got lucky this time."

When, a few weeks later, I discovered
the loss of those 12 pages,
I'd screamed and cried and thrown things,
and I thought, "Man! I guess I really am a writer."
Then, I thought, "Nah,
I'm just unbalanced."

When, two months later, fully expecting to fail,
I scratched out those 12 pages all over again
in the space of three nights (between 1 and 5 a.m.),
I stared at them, dropped my pen, rubbed my eyes
and thought, "Oh, fuck it, fine, I'm a writer."
And, too exhausted to think anymore,
fell asleep.



Summer 2006.

Monster (Liking Trop)

The moon was like a
milky, pregnant belly
in the heavens, heavily
swollen, a ripe white
berry, ready to burst pearly
juice.

There was a human cry, and then,
the sound of clothes ripping, then
panting, panting, panting, then, a long, long
howl. Then,
silence.

We found them in the morning,
him,
no longer himself,
and her -
a ripe, blanched berry,
burst.




Summer 2006.

The Wall By Your Bed

On the vast white sea
of the wall by your bed,
two dark islands
keep changing the map.

Sometimes, uncertain,
they float apart,
only to
slide together again.

On the uncertain map
of the wall by your bed,
two dark islands
keep changing their minds.

They turn, in turn,
from volcanic to glacial,
only to
change their minds again.

On the frustrated map
of the wall by your bed,
two dark islands
tell the histories of time,

of the Earth in her youth,
when nothing stood still,
when the continents
moved with the tides.

On the great, paling sea
of the wall by your bed,
a grey mountain
begins to stir.

In the pale morning light,
it groans and it sighs,
turning into
two islands once more.



Summer 2006.

October 3, 2006

King of Spades

The cards flew
like brightly plumaged birds,
scattering shining, multi-colored discs
like sequins from an evening gown,
and whimsical bits of colored paper
like swirling confetti.
Clang-clang-clang went the
slot machine, and somewhere,
a woman screamed
with joy.

The cards fled,
like fickle birds,
toward warmer climes
and greener pastures.
The cocktails flowed
and flickered fetchingly
in the electric lights,
and the dealers
studiously averted their eyes,
hastily palming handfuls
that meant nothing at all.

Time passed like money
between countless fingers,
and disappeared, and then,

the cards fell
like wounded birds,
helpless and empty-eyed,
and, in the end,
indifferent.

Clang-clang-clang went the
slot machine, and somewhere,
a lonely woman
wept.




Spring 2006.