July 2, 2007

Boy from Queens

He was a boy from Queens.
Smoked red Marlboros, talked
out the side of his mouth,
and kissed like a demon.

His mother would call him,
and I'd hear
her wet staccato voice.
He would say, patiently,
"Ma, Ma, I'm fine, I'm all right. Be home soon."

He handled me clumsily but well. He would say
"God, you are fuckin' pretty,"
while I melted all over
his leather coat.

Right now, he's probably telling
some other eighteen-year-old
she's so fuckin' pretty,
and when his wife calls, says,
"I'm fine, I'm all right. Be home soon."

Crossed

The night we met,
you told me you were a tourist
and laughed your way into my bed.

Everything happened
as everything always
happens.

Last month, I heard
you were getting restless again,
that you were trying to build a boat.

Streaking New York to London,
over fish-silver ocean,
I have to look down.

Party on Poetry Planet

So we closed our eyes,
smashed all the mirrors
and danced
among the shards
and fell.

Our blood was beautiful,
pain was pleasure,
and scars were pride.

We kissed
and mumbled through the wine.
We said,

"If all the world's a stage,
the poet operates the spotlight,"

but yearned for glamour
far too much
to remain poets for long.