Sunday, April 29, 2012

Notebook April 29, 2012

The rain dribbles down
the church roof next door
Making it look like liquid chrome
Gray metal in a gray light
That makes me think of tears
Everything is reflected in it
But muted, so that even
The scalding colors
Of the children’s playground
Loses luster
From this high up
And the always open window
With the always smoldering can
For cigarette butts
The world looks remote
no shades needed to keep out
unwanted eyes
too elevated for neighbors
to witness the love making
or the crying
even those dark hours
spent in contemplation
of self destruction
on the roof
But on days like these
When the rain flows
The whole building
Seems to melt,
Like one large
Brick-faced candle
Slowly expiring
The drip of slick liquid
Flowing down all sides
The culmination of a long struggle
And heated passion
Exploding with holy water
And the scream,
Not of children playin,
But a pleasure and pain,
All shimmering on the surface
As if the building itself sweated
From the touch of it
Something always shifting
Something always dying
Something always going away,
Rain dripping always in the wake
Without satisfaction.

Friday, April 27, 2012

Sunrise over Newark Bay

The wind blows over the park this morning,
A cold breath of another time and place
Me clutching the rail of the overlook
And stare at the gray water that marks
The boundary between two cities

Water erases the phony distinctions
People put on places
Ignoring street signs and parking laws
Ignoring clutching people like me
Who come to places like this
Looking for answers no one can give

This soon after sunrise the air stays chill
A frosted dry kiss on my cheek
As brisk as a slap someone
Recently said I deserve
A kiss, a slap, and wind fingers
Easing through my hair

When the sun does come it brings no real warmth
Just the suggestion of heat I ache to feel
So vague even the kiss of the wind seems more real
All the most significant things in my life are vague
Hints at something beyond that I can’t quite lay hold of
Moments passing that linger long enough to touch
My cheek before moving on to something else

I always come to these places, look out at such waves
In the hopes that I can catch a glimpse of that passing thing
Before it fades into some other reality, some other place
Evaporated by sunrise that can’t quite warm me.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Washington Park

Sunlight drenches the park
As heavily this morning
As the rain did two nights ago
Union City sprawled along one side
Jersey City on the other
And me,
Parked in the middle
Wondering to which side
I belong

The park is different
From the one I first came
To know
Green exotic art
Shielding people from sunlight
Along one edge
A cork screw called art
Pointing the way
Deeper into the city on the other,
Each making a statement on life
A vision of art
And how we should
Embrace those things
In a place where art seems
Out of touch

These pieces decorate
The edges of a bleak existence
Art upon which some artists thrive
While kids in nearby houses starve
And sometimes
So do the artists.

Why do such things,
Erect such icons
In the midst of such misery?
Why pursue dreams
That feed the soul
But not our bodies,
Our lives caught between
Union City on this side
And Jersey City on that,
With only this thin
White line in the middle
And artistic visions
Marking the boundaries
Of our lives
As if to step beyond either
Out from under the green shade
Or the silver cork screw
Means we might
Cease to exist?

Monday, April 23, 2012

Fear of flying

A sea gull cries over me in the park as I exercise
My arms swinging old weights as the bird floats
Above me weightless
Its wings spread like mine
Only he rises’
And I sink

Somewhere an old song by The Supremes
Comes to mind,
About being set free,

And the bird floats
Into the gray fog
Vanishing at moments
But not its cries

The ground is still wet from the down pour
My shoes squeak as I moved through
A ritual I only half believe

The bird’s cries
sound like my cries
Only her cries are overjoyed
And mine
Over losing something
I never had

The wooden platform
Groans with each move I make
Splintered paradise sending showers
Of unwashed dust
Onto the surface of the water below
These set free, too
To drift to the unknown

The fear of being weighted down
The fear of drifting away
Both tugging on my aching biceps
As I lift my wings
And cry.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Little me

I’m never prepared for you,
Even when I think I am,
Finding your building, but forgetting
Which button to push,
A novice at my age
Stiff as a soldier marching up your stairs
Melting in your arms,
As to let my fingers take me places
The rest of me needs to go,
I feel so clumsy, so blunt
That bull in a shop of china
Whose any wrong move might bring
The whole house down
I love your look,
Especially the mouth and eyes
Undisguised by makeup
As if you’ve already made love
Or want to,
As you press up against a defenseless me
A me that aches inside and out
Feeling you through thin fabric
My chest against your breasts,
My lips against your
Feeling softness beneath my fingers
I have not felt before,
Me, wanting to be inside of you
Whatever way I can.
But I am never prepared for you
Even when I think I am
Lost in some haze,
Brain freezing over small details,
such as my hand clasping your breast.
I am sixteen again
Copping my first feel
Only it’s your face I see
Even in memory from back then
And it’s your lips I kiss
The old Who song reverberated in me
“Can you see the real me? Can ya?”
I do not feel real, only you do to me.
I feel like I am sculpting you
With each touch,
Creating the breasts under my fingers,
Creating space between your legs
Your low voice moving my hand, my touch,
Directing me to those places
That bring you the most pleasure,
While between my legs,
I rise and fall like the tides
Leaving a residue of salt in the wake of lust
It is all too much to keep track of
To be certain as to what part of you does what
when I touch you,
aching to climb inside of you
when I can only keep my attention focused
on one thing at a time
fingers finding deeper hollows,
holy ground, sacred spaces
to press and encircle,
drawing moans I hope will turn to screams,
me, a terrorist waiting for that final explosion
that ultimate scream,
that burst of joy I can’t take responsibility for
but like a boasting kid brag about in my head
feeling proud about
even though your voice guided my hand
wherever it went
and the little me inside the big me
grateful for the help,
aching to please you, aching to make sure
this all can happen again.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Inside and out

It always the mouth
that distracts me
From what goes on
in your mind,
Less hips than lips
that sails this ship
Over this sea of words
you weave
Puckered breath
painting portraits
Of what goes on inside
Each word so perfect
I ponder the prospect
Puckering up over them
To sip your words
Like wine
To make them mine
To reach that mind
Behind those lips,
Hips and eyes,
To know you
Inside and out.