Who Wraps Easter Presents?

Crap.

It would seem I am

 stuck.

I did not think

I would find myself

here again,

past

between

future

(which is quite silly, really) 

I try to outwit the present, daily,

but whoever wrapped this damn thing

did an excellent job

it’s one of those gifts,

like those trick candles that

manage to revive no matter

how hard you blow

(how does that happen?)

 layers and layers of

striped purple paper

green polka dots sprinkled on light pink,

flying fairies for dreaming princesses,

dancing Santas wishing me an unseasonable Merry Christmas

Easter Bunnies hopping ecstatically

(who wraps Easter presents? That’s what the plastic eggs are for)

and -sigh- finally,

a box!

It contains another box, smaller this time,

brown, cardboard, a tease.

You have to be kidding.

I thought I had gotten to the heart of the matter.

Apologies, I digress.

Anna

I was thinking, yesterday,

that it is so amazing –

we get to carry our bodies with us,

even in the cramped space

of a hall without windows.

Buildings make my heart stop –

she said to me with an introspective

.pause.

– I like

Cru

         mb

  ling

buildings;

they are a reminder that

               *everything*

                       is subject

                           to nature.

I mean, have you ever felt a tree?

Felt it when you draw it?

(She lifts one arm above her head,

sticks one out at her side,

cocks her head, becomes the tree).

It’s like drawing a person…

I couldn’t draw a building. 

Robin, Paper, Jack

Wearing a crooked smile,

Robin winks at the girls

in the red and blue flannels

and knitted wool hats,

flitting away quickly

when spotted

to watch them

from his post nearby in

Paper Burch.

Paper welcomes Robin,

but today cannot revel in his homecoming.

Paper shivers and feels

sullenly jealous of the needles

covering Jack Pine next-door.

He watches with envy as Jack breezily shakes off

the softing white flakes

that so quickly become

deadweight.

Little does Paper know

that Jack covets Paper’s bare limbs,

desperately wishing that his prickles

might one November copy Paper’s leaves,

browning and yellowing as they Fall

to the ground to form a pile

in which the children play,

thanking Paper for his sacrifice

with squeals of Joy,

only the echoes of which Jack

can longingly absorb. 

Bittersweet

"I remember playing football in St. Louis,

it was 20 below,

my high school was an 80-year-old building,

the football field was very small,

I guess some years before 

they had played a game - in the rain - which tore the field,

it was like playing on sandpaper, 

not a pleasant experience. /

I can't tell you how many times 

I was working on a film crew in Chicago,

when you are working a feature film it's insanity, 

they spend money like water,

bumper-to-bumper traffic 

when we would finally leave at 3am. /

I was really rooting for the Bears, 

it was fun to be watching it with somebody,

I think the Vikings will win Saturday,

Packers are getting cocky. /

I was a linebacker, fastest guy out there,

coach is showing us movies,

I don't want to hit the guy,

but I was going as fast as I could. /

Oh really?

Really, his brother-in-law convinced him to go."

Snowflakes sift gently through the freezing air while

2 old men sit, awash in the glow of Minnesota friendly,

gently meandering in Bittersweet Café.

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.