i know nothing july 2012

 

he thinks I know

 what I only suspect

perhaps is terrified

 I might expose them

when that's the last thing

 I want to do

 he and she holding

my life hostage

when they think I hold theirs

 yet I am consumed

with the green-eyed monster

and feel the sting when

 I think of them together

my brain manufacturing

wild orgies and exotic trips

they engage in when

that rational part

 the big brain versus

 the small brain

tells me none of that is true

perhaps projecting

the image of their debauchery

 because I ache to do it too

 he thinks I know

when I know nothing

though I catch his glances

 and feel the fear

he is exudes

the what ifs

the dangers I pose

the knowledge he thinks

 I possess

but I don't

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Creaking wheels

 

Her wheel creak, rusted, out of aligned, on a pushcart nearly as ancient as the woman who pushes it is, wheels clacking out ahead of her like a warning, a witch's chat straight out of Shakespeare, filling the gaps left by the passing traffic.

She comes this way twice a day, one way after dawn the other after dusk, a ritual so predictable I need no watch to tell the time of day

 She, almost a ghost, with her straw like hair and her white blouse and pants, creaking almost as much as the wheels of the cart does, and perhaps with the same warning of doom, wheels staring up the broth of her life, back and forth, carrying all she owns, here and there, across this urban universe she knows too well, one creaking wheel at a time

Make me feel it

 August 30th 2014 

There's no easy way out of all this, summer slipping through our fingers like so much sand, as I sit here on the pier where someone put up a Captain Jack doll and American flag, a block away from the hotel with gold trim.
I always pause as if one of the stations of the Cross, not yet the crucifixion, maybe the place where Christ falls and Simon takes up the burden for a Time.
 I sit wishing it all had been different wiser me doing wiser things I didn't think to do when I still could 
I sit here, up the block from the quaint downtown and a religious auditorium so huge the New York Giants might play the super bowl inside of it.
 this day leading up to Labor Day weekend, The heat of Summer sizzling into me as if I am a kettle, and still boiling up inside until I'm ready to burst, 
The sea sending foam to my feet, tickling my toes, water warmer than the air as I search for dolphins and whales, vague shapes on the glittering surface that always brings me hope, here at the edge of the universe 

On the edge of the universe August 30th 2014

There's no easy way out of all this, summer slipping through our fingers like so much sand, as I sit here on the pier where someone put up a Captain Jack doll and American flag, a block away from the hotel with gold trim.

I always pause as if one of the stations of the Cross, not yet the crucifixion, maybe the place where Christ falls and Simon takes up the burden for a Time.

 I sit wishing it all had been different wiser me doing wiser things I didn't think to do when I still could 

I sit here, up the block from the quaint downtown and a religious auditorium so huge the New York Giants might play the super bowl inside of it.

 this day leading up to Labor Day weekend, The heat of Summer sizzling into me as if I am a kettle, and still boiling up inside until I'm ready to burst, 

The sea sending foam to my feet, tickling my toes, water warmer than the air as I search for dolphins and whales, vague shapes on the glittering surface that always brings me hope, here at the edge of the universe 

Thee are a rose Aug. 26, 2014

  

Thee are as beautiful as a rose, and just as dangerous.

I’ve pricked my fingers on your thorns and still – after all this time, all that I’ve thought and felt – I still bleed, forced to admire thee from afar, to keep from pricking myself again, to bleed more.

I feel time’s passing as you must, too, these few days ahead of the calendar turning and you get another year to add.

Thou are no less beautiful on that account, younger by far when compared to me, still graceful, still desirable, regardless of how many days on the calendar pass.

I make no comment save for this, which you will never read, springing out of the all too sparce desert in which I live out my life.

You are the rose that grows here, ever present, undiminished by the cruel world in which we all must live, each page, each passing day, adding, not subtracting from they worth, and in these days, wandering this dry place, I yet to fully realize how worthy thou art, even if – when all is said and done, you will never hear these words of praise coming from these lips.

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Her scent in the air Nov. 22, 2012

  

I still smell her, not just her perfume, but her beneath of the mask of scents that accumulated in this space, this place near our office window where she could stare out at the skyline, asking herself why she is here and not over there, a scent so acute I choke on it, and yet, still feel the need to get closer, right up to the space where he scent is strongest, I breathe it in and drown on it, so filled up I can’t take in anything else except her, not a sweet or sour odor, maybe both, a scent that stirs me up inside and forces a scent of my own to pour out of every pore, just from smelling her. I can’t hide it, can’t put it all back into a box, once out, I’m overwhelmed and must deal with it, somewhere private, so that when others who reside here won’t discover how I feel.

I still smell her here, a fragrance lingering on the chair in which she sat, on her desk, on my shoulders just from passing her on their stairs, or when she used to pause at the top and stare down at me, her scent filling up this whole world, still here, as is the echo of her voice when she used to walk and talk, now caught up in the fabric of my universe, even though she has gone, not too sweet, or sour, no, a scent absolutely perfect.

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Still standing October 30, 2013

 

 

 She’s a winner

If she’s still standing

At the end of the bout,

(my brain recalling

Those pictures of her

With boxing gloves on,

And the parade of testosterone

All around her,

As if she would take them all on,

In anyway they wanted,

And I’m still jealous)

She’s a winner,

Even when objectively

She seems not

All the plans of mice and men

 (as Shakespeare put it)

Dashed on the rocks of reality

and out of such wreckage

people must rebuild or move on,

me outside the ring

feeling her pain,

even as I secretly cheer her on,

watching her stagger,

swaying like a punch drunk,

 cringing at the fear someone might strike again

and relieve her of her feet,

too staggered to run and

perhaps with no place to run to.

She must stand where she is

until the fog fades

and she can see a way to win

In a world where everybody betrays everybody else,

it is impossible to know who to trust,

even those she has trusted before.

In the end, she must

 – as she has done in the past –

rely on herself to survive,

 stumbling forwards

but on her own two feet,

wary of those who offer kindness

with one hand and a stab in the back with the other.

In the end, all she can rely on is herself.

 

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