Milk with your ice?

Did you know
that in the 19th century,
linguists decided
there was little connection
between language and logic?

I like to sit
in the middle of a sentence,
straddling the comma
and contemplating
the semicolon
that could divide my phrases
into independent clauses.
(Ben Jonson systematized the semicolon.)  
Perhaps, instead, I will use
for, and, nor, but, or, yet, so
to present reasons,
(non) contrasting items,
consequences, and exceptions.

Human beings
can express the same thought
in varying ways;
I recently had someone ask,
"Do you like milk with your ice?"
I have to assume
he was asking if
I like ice cream.
Perhaps we missed each other
in the effort to decipher meaning.

TMI

Clutching the long metal pole,
I speak inanely rather than 
revealing the inner workings
and goings-on of my mind,
intensely aware that every syllable
dripping from my lips
seems to be spoken too loudly
and is suddenly absorbed 
from every angle
by the men and women
pretending to stare straight ahead
at the map depicting 
the possible routes
they could take
to find their way home
(or wherever it is they may travel
on this hot, humid evening)
encased by recirculated air
that smells of stale bodies.

I know this is the case,
because I do it too.

An older man and woman
spoke across the rush-hour masses -
wedged against the door
and crushed in the middle,
respectively - and discovered
they were from the same neighborhood,
but everyone "was moved or dead" by now,
and his sister had stolen her daughter's clothes
under the pretext of borrowing them,
and his mama had once thrown her
out of their house,
but apologized later,
and he apologized now
to make up for his sister and mother,
and an intimacy was established
as the rest of the car listened intently,
completely discomfited,
unable to escape,
secretly fascinated
by the scene unfolding.
Small world after all.

Recently, a man entered the train
wearing a backback,
sat down in the middle of the floor,
and began rocking back and forth,
muttering to himself,
"I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy"
and slowly but surely,
the world being as it is right now,
he was surrounded by emptiness,
an ever-growing circumference
of steadily-increasing fear
as people moved cars.
He slapped the map and declared,
"There's a demon on Staten Island!"
Be that as it may,
he manifested his own mantra,
left alone on the floor,
speeding toward that which he feared.

TMI, you might say,
too much information 
as the abbreviation goes;
if you speak of your life 
on the subway
it becomes public fodder,
a newer version
of airing your dirty laundry,
and can end up 
in someone's poem.

Checkmate

if you sit still inside of yourself,

refusing to hover over the surface of things,

you might just discover a new way to inhabit

your flesh, the body you have been given,

the one that slipped out of your mother

on the day you were born

and gasped for air like a fish

as your lungs learned to embrace oxygen;

this body has carried you,

the muscles, breath, tendons, toes

are yours to cherish, to abuse, to adore.

sometimes a body enters your space

and every fiber of your being

is aware of its presence 

and there is nothing you can do but

line up your pawns 

and ask them to take two steps forward with you

before they scoot to the side,

leaving your path clear.

you’ve played before,

but, this time, break the rules,

eschew the game,

and operate with the assuredness

that comes from inhabiting your space

rather than hovering on the surface.

find the moment where you connect,

fingertips brushing, a hand on your hip,

and revel in the knowledge

that you have won.

Autumn Royal Grapes

If I could color my energy,

I would color it dark purple,

the color of an Autumn Royal grape,

a vibrant shade of happiness,

and it would outline my body

and I would share

an intimate, deep

feeling of happiness and peace

with everyone who brushed against me.

Wedding Cassiopeia

In the bright darkness,

confusion settled.

The Christmas lights

interrupted

the sky, posing as stars, 

momentarily almost content

to illuminate the bottle 

filled with pink liquid

accompanied by cranberries

and goat cheese,

but not-so-secretly

wishing to join Orion.

It was a good reminder

that though they may aspire

to the next step, the bigger picture,

to wed Cassiopeia

by reaching across the northern sky

to capture her in the palm of their hand,

they are, for now, 

part of the Manhattan skyline,

a miniature spot of happiness

in the lack of darkness

and, tonight, they will just be lights.

Midnight

Fiery liquid races through our veins

as we toast our greatness with faux formality

and feel the fog cloud our brains,

as we quickly alter our realities.

Each synapse sparks, faster and faster

or slower, depending, and the world is spinning,

and we are fast heading for disaster,

happily bumping, grinding, inanely grinning.

The clock strikes twelve, the world stops.

And starts as Madonna blasts

and gyrating forms move closer, 

touching, groping - 

flying tops litter the floor -

in the sweaty dark, we transform.

(Originally written in winter 2009)

Jazzberry Jam

She stood in a tadasana
and took a deep breath,
filling every corner of her body, 
sending the energy to the tips of her
ten fingers and ten toes,
and when she blew her breath out
she scattered the dandelion fluff
into a rainbow 
of Magic Mint, Cerulean,
Saffron,  Macaroni and Cheese,
Goldenrod, and Jazzberry Jam.

And she smiled.

 

Tin Can Intimacy

I would like to brush against you
in the mini-space of false intimacy
created by the crush
of suits and dresses heading home.
As plus personnes
join me in the tin can,
we stand, and I can feel
your breath on my hair.
It is very strange to realize
that we do not know one another
and in ten minutes time
will never see each other again.

I wish I could wake
the sleeping child to ask her
how her day has been.
She would describe in a small,
squeaky voice, filled with the unique delight reserved for innocence,
the experience that is growing up
in this concrete jungle.
"The slides here are the same as the slides from your childhood,"
she would unwittingly inform me,
"and my toy poodle accompanies me to dance class where it waits patiently outside with my mom who talks into the little box that talks back."
I would discover that, most of all,
she is happiest sleeping
in the arms of her father
in the little metal trap
that takes them safely home.

If you look into his eyes,
you can tell that he would like to hold
the hand of the woman
in the red, floral dress,
to inch his fingers down the metallic pole until he accidentally-on-purpose
brushes her fingers,
memorizing her knuckles
and the two silver rings
before she exits on Broadway
and ceases to exist.

What if we were stuck and the lights went out and we had to wait underground in a man-made cave inside a very small car?
I hope someone would blast "Like A Prayer" and, as one, all shirts
would come off and we would engage
in a half-naked party
and the rescue workers
would discover a mass
of sweaty, happy people
who have crossed
the invisible barriers
immediately erected,
the impenetrable walls
that deflect the possibility
of human comfort.
They would join us
and absorb our endorphins
before bringing us safely to reality.

I would like to reach across the aisle
and cup the cheek of the woman
who has clearly been crying
and share with her the secret knowledge that even when life seems bleakest,
there is always a light
at the end of the tunnel.