Sitting on a Bench in Nelson A. Rockefeller Park

5/6/11

Sitting on a Bench in Nelson A. Rockefeller Park

The sun’s warm rays

Rub onto my skin

Like an affectionate cat,

A man lies in the grass with his bicycle,

Shirtless and close-eyed,

With nothing to do

But to do nothing, gracefully,

Two men in suits walk past

Discussing business affairs,

Things they’ve done and things to do,

And I laugh at them inside,

The Hudson River flows before me,

Not majestically,

Rather, each wave carelessly meanders

With no particular purpose,

Tall buildings across the river

Could touch the sky if they wanted to,

But they just stand like statues

Under the paper mache clouds,

Boats float on the Hudson

With sails like swans,

And nobody knows where they’re going,

And nobody seems to care.

I see the Statue of Liberty

Standing alone on her island,

Admiring the crayon drawn blue sky

And wholesome simplicity.

At a Party

5/5/11

At a Party

I watched it happen,

Opened the half-closed wooden door

To a stranger’s house,

And hearing the loud music, blasting like bombs in the attic,

Climbed up the awkward stairs,

And walked through the open door,

Smelling the stench of cigarettes gliding in the air

Like an invisible ghost.

I sat in the corner, on the stranger’s bed.

It was the only place to sit

Because even the floor was full

Of beer-reeking teenagers

Dancing their dream of fun,

Kissing another,

Living their dizzy dream of love

For a night.

The window shakes to the sound of the bass

And the floor quakes under the weight of music –

It is like a dream.

Everybody is happy, everybody smiles,

Everybody hugs,

They’re all so happy,

And the ghost of the cigarette

Floats aimlessly about the room.

Not finding my fit there,

I walked back down the stairs

And watched a group of kids crowd

Around a kneeling girl,

Crying her crimson cheeks to black

And vomiting her dinner to the floor,

Swearing at love.

I walked outside, a little disappointed,

And talked to a kid from out of town.

He had shaggy brown hair

And brows, thick and full, like clouds.

He lit his cigarette and I couldn’t help

But watch the red end burn.

Untitled

5/4/11

Untitled

Sitting at a wooden desk in my basement,

Cold and dark, save a light on the wall

And a stream of sunlight sifting through the window,

Pen in hand, held tightly,

Like a knife ready to stab at poetry,

Wherever it may be.

Almond colored wooden panels on the walls,

White tiled floor, two couches,

One below a mound of wrinkled laundry,

And the other empty.

Two pipes run from the floor to the ceiling,

And pierce the room.

An unused television, old and dusty video games,

And white skeletons of poems

Lay buried in the trash.

I look outside, to the world above ground,

And see green stems of plants

Standing in the sun, waiting for something, maybe,

And the lip pink petals of a tulip.

I hear the chatter of birds in the distance

And even the swift flutter of wings,

But I don’t see it –

Might as well take a fat book from the shelf

And read what everybody else has to say about life.

Walt Whitman, wise grandfather,

What wonders have I missed?

An Echo Near and Far

5/3/11

An Echo Near and Far

With closed eyes and breath,

Tranquil and even as waves on a shore,

I lowered my head onto your chest

And listened to the beat-beating of your heart,

The natural tap-tap of your life ticking,

Sealed safe inside you, yet open to me.

I listened to your subtle metronome ticking,

Tranquil and even as love’s delight,

And heard your heart pump-pumping,

Quiet, but definite,

And heard it echo in my skull,

And felt it rush my blood,

And felt it beat-beating, like life,

In my own very heart.

I hear the rhythm everywhere,

The echoes still rebounding,

I hear it in the very air

My skull, my heart is pounding.

My love, my love, my love is pounding,

I hear it echo far,

It echoes down the street, the trees,

The grass, the sky, the stars,

Beyond e’en there I feel it pass

To distances beyond

Where man can never reach with his hand –

It takes two hearts, a bond.

Shell Gas Station

5/2/11

Shell Gas Station

The only sound here

Is the extended belch of the engine

And rubber wheels rolling against cement.

The only smell

Is the reigning stench of gasoline

And burned rubber.

Men with weary eyes, slugging their way

To serve the Machine,

Pouring thick black

Juice into His open mouth.

Water from the wash

Dribbles down the pavement

Like drool.

He comes, He goes;

We only know

That He will be back,

Again, again.

And when the last drop of juice drips away. . .

What have we become?

Humanity,

Who have founded fire and light,

Formed metals and medicine,

Who have defied nature

Again, again –

The apprentice,

Now master.

We have advanced ourselves

Into dependence,

Coming here by the millions

Like pigeons for crumbs

To serve Him.

We have enslaved ourselves to our creation.

He reigns the air,

The skies, the seas, the earth.

He is everywhere and

We know longer know
How to break away.