Conviction

This poem is loosely inspired by Michael Collier’s Pay-Per-View. The line "A conviction fed by a yearning that in time" is his.

She awoke with

a conviction, 
fed by a yearning, 
that in time

everything would change,

the world would reverse,

the nightmares

would stop.

A yearning that in time

the night would welcome back

its restless child, trapped by day,

for neither world held solace.

That in time

the pain would end

and her waking nightmares

would stop walking.

A conviction, 

fed by a yearning,

that in time

she would become...

Murmurings

She walks past
and exhales, "Sorry,"
giggling to herself,
staring ahead,
gone.

A black man on the train
sits with his bike,
saxophone, flute -
he turns to me, asks with a smile,
"Do you know how to identify the difference
between an English and an Australian accent?"
He exits at West 4th street.

A tall man mutters
in the Double Dragon
Chinese take-away restaurant,
"Do you know, have you heard about the deflation of the dollar?"
as the man in a suit bends down
to pick up a dropped quarter.
The server pretends to hear, makes eye contact
as he scribbles orders on a notepad.
The man thanks the server for listening.

I sing under my breath,
"Keep the jacket, just bring it back to me someday,"
and mutter my to-do list,
"Edit two essays, make chili, consider yoga,"
and greet my cats, "Hello babies! How was your day?"

In a sea of anonymity,
it is nice to verify
that you are not a ghost
passing through a moment,
gone in an exhale.

Fragments

A white table from the trash courtyard,
lugged upstairs in a rainstorm,
sits and stares at me with its Ikea trappings,
flanked by two red folding chairs
boasting hand-painted flowers,
found tucked inside an East Village thrift store.

A bookshelf poses as faux Victorian
as its comrade in arms from Nadeau furniture
pretends to be from the Caribbean,
straw drawers begging for airy shirts but
sadly filled with sweaters.

Two kitties,
one from 150th street
rescued from an apartment
housing 17 other cats,
labeled as aggressive
for wanting to play with the shy ones,
the other with weepy eyes
gushing ooze, fevered,
purring in the palm of my hand
as the ass asks for $100.
These two are mine.

A tiny family dwells in
a studio apartment
about as small as you might imagine,
filled with pieces, each with a history
I can never really know.

I find myself in fragments,
collecting parts to fashion
a story that feels familiar.

Name Tag

Hello.

My name is _______

I am a remnant.

I’ve lost my –

I’m lost,

Can you help me?

You used to know me –

I think.

The City that Never Sleeps

Your neighbor blasts his base and

the insistent thumping confuses your dreams.

That person across the alley sings opera

that should be beautiful,

but instead sounds like that Halloween decoration

that scared the shit out of your little sister in 1995.

The Coca-Cola delivery truck rolls by at 4 AM

and blasts its horn,

but is the driver really at fault?  

You know he would rather be sleeping.

It’s the screaming sober man,

the stumbling, wasted woman screeching,

and the haunting witch opera mixed with the base

that sing, ever so loudly,

“Welcome to the city that never sleeps.”

Magic

If I were magic,

I’d take you to a field of stars,

strip off all of my clothes,

and dance naked for you.

(I think you’d like that.)

You would look at me with that crooked smile,

(the one that means you don’t necessarily understand

why I am dancing naked in a field,)

before you join me.

The sweat of our love would turn the grass into silk,

and butterflies would land on your shoulder blades

to watch the fireflies wink.

For Tayleigh Ann

Sweet little girl,

tell the Moon, “Goodnight,”

as it shines just for you

while your mom holds you tight.

Say goodnight to the air,

it’ll rock you to sleep

in the boughs of the branches

whose secrets you’ll keep.

Say goodnight to the stars

they are falling for you

brightly dancing a dance

to make dreams come true.

My sweet little girl,

tell the world, “Goodnight,”

as it cradles you softly

while your mom holds you tight.

Sliding Gently

We will now exist in a soundless space, 

our feet will glide across the frozen earth,

as we pass through moments once there, now lost –

of touching lips, slipping fingers

finding buttons, finding breasts,

finding v L e o,           

letters of a nothing word

that can mean so very much –

We will not go there, not anymore.

My thoughts echo in the silence

where our words once existed.

They threaten to spill, to overflow

into this void that fills with the

glittering memories of crystallized

failures sliding gently into nothing.

Release

I breathe and my eyes disappear

before my toes follow suit

then my knees

my belly button

my breasts.

I become

a whole

dissolved

into

minute

possibilities

that swirl

to form

maybes

and the

occasional

perhaps.

The Underwear Party

A single pink rose stands out

among gerbera daisies,

teasing the vegan chocolate cake,

and competing with the white zinfandel,

watching the talking women:

A nervous woman enters wearing leopard tights

that hug her legs like an intimate friend,

daring her to change her identity.

A round woman dons navy blue lingerie

and a purple sweater that gently

caresses her luxurious shoulders.

Black lace teases the tops of a daring lady’s thighs,

as she revels in the illicit feeling

of wearing almost nothing.

A confused woman sports boxers

that serve as a reminder of

a first-name only night before.

They dip banana slices and

pieces of strawberry

in warm chocolate

that falls in loving drips

onto their fingers.           

Sugary mulled sangria,

or a cup of pink champagne

bubbles happily in the hands of

these smiling women.

The heat is cranked up

and they lounge on

a pink pillow, an orange couch,

a feetless purple armoire –

Sheets of purple fabric

with a very subtle flower pattern

pose as curtains

and wink at the pink rose

as she silently watches

and revels in her own nudity.

The Error of My Ways

I met the Error of My Ways

on a path to Nowhere.
He was quite congenial.
He laughed at me for taking a left
when the sign to Nowhere 
clearly pointed right.

"But I took the road
less traveled by."
Error just smiled at me
and said that's what every traveler
thinks on their way to Nowhere,
but there are only so many
less traveled roads,
and eventually
we all end up in the same place. 

Maybe Today

So, today,
you sit in the median on Broadway,
across from the Flatiron building,
sipping a Grande, iced, skinny vanilla latte
(you might as well have ordered water)
from that franchise you keep vowing to disavow,
immensely enjoying the sunshine 
while musing about apartments.


Maybe, today, 
you won't wear headphones on the subway
because you want to sit in the noise generated by
people trying to be silent, staring stonily ahead,
headphones tucked into bruised ears,
trying in vain to pretend they are alone in a madhouse.


Definitely, today,
you will meet friends for Arepas
and a Bloody Mary, but only if you're lucky,
since New York bartenders tend to
only make that drink for brunch.
You will breathe, just breathe,
but not like that Anna Nalick song.