Today my faithful iBook decided to lay its final words onto the page. It is still alive, but it is ailing, and so I found myself on my aged desktop. The documents on it span the last eleven years. That would be half of my life.
Brr..
So, for today, I shall offer the first poem attempted by yours truly, that was not written in a romantic Rebert Frost meter. It was first hand-written (as everything tends to be) and then typed on this great old box.
So here is another verse from the saddle of the old horse. Wow, that even rhymed. I'm going to go give myself a cookie. You guys can read.
Workshop
Our horizontal weeping done,
I draw the curtains open, and return.
In the soft slumber of her closed eyes I live
Alone.
It’s easier that way.
But in the swaying of the curtains’ pose,
The ticking clicks of clocks in prose,
On my back heels I backwards race,
To done undo, to steps erase.
But it is useless -
Soon breakfast will be served.
I find the busy chatter of meaningless words
Soothing.
My heart is let to sleep.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Somewhere in Switzerland
On the water
The swan sits
Alone.
It does not weep
It merely cleans
Itself.
Our words get lost
On the dock
You are no longer
Speaking.
You fix yourself
In your mirror
You are
Alone.
You do not weep
You merely see
Yourself.
The swan sits
Alone.
It does not weep
It merely cleans
Itself.
Our words get lost
On the dock
You are no longer
Speaking.
You fix yourself
In your mirror
You are
Alone.
You do not weep
You merely see
Yourself.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
To catch a moon
In the style of Marquez, a dedication to my very close and ailing friend.
Sometime after the war, he made out to watch the moon.
First week upon arrival, uniform still on, he came out onto the rooftop of his building. The rooftop was black and empty, the view of the city scarred only by the black antennas around him. Twilight had already set in, and the silver disk of the moon hung just over the horizon of antennas.
He set out then, once and for all, to never take his eyes off the moon.
He lay down, keeping his eyes fixed on it so that he may be able to see it move gradually and not in random ticks of directed glances during the day and night. He lay down, watching the white moon pass over him during the night, following its path as it continued to pass over and under the building as an eternal jump rope, never missing a day, even when it would rain, glowing through the gray overcast like a radioactive copper plate.
Autumn began to approach and his friends, who often watched the moon with him, began to worry that he would not survive the winter. But he would hear nothing about it, and his friends, weary of his abstinence, descended within the building.
The winter passed, and he continued to watch the moon. Hardened by the sun and the city air, his body grew hard and emancipated, washed only by the autumn leaves that came to pass over the roof. Years passed and his body became flatter and flatter, seeping gradually into the thick tar of the roof. Friends no longer came up and relatives visited at increasingly longer intervals, and then no longer visited at all, giving in to the silence of his withering, and ultimately to the silence of their own deaths.
Before her death, however, his mother came to the roof. It was the windiest night in the history of the building and the winds awoke her. They rattled the windows and ripped the dreams of those asleep out of them. Caught in the drafts, the dreams began to mix and intersect, so that soon nobody was sure if their dream was indeed theirs.
The gusts swept into the apartment and out and back within. They passed under the building and above it, sprinkling their remnants over the rooftop. Vigilant, his mother would not let go of her dream. So she held and held, and soon she too was dropped over the rooftop. And so there she sat, watching her son, ignoring the siren of her own death that was rising from the street.
She covered his body with her dream so as to save him from the coming gusts. She sat with him for a short while and went downstairs. Alone, he lay in the tar. He was cold, and feeling his chill the dream began to creep over him.
In it he still lived in his old room, beneath the room of his mother. It was night, and he was leaning out of his window. The moon was out, and his eyes were fixed upon it. Sensing his glance, his mother leaned out of her window, watching him below. But he never saw her. She watched him and he watched the moon, and seeing his eyes fixed on the white gleam she would slowly form small tears, and they would roll down and fall, one by one, until a small drizzle would descend upon him. But he did not feel it. He watched the moon and she watched him and a rainstorm of a thousand tears would wash his face and his hair and he would do nothing about it, never knowing where it came from.
The dream crept over his body, covering him to his neck, tucking him in. There was no one to bother him now, save for the company of the aged dreams resting along his side. Two thin screens of salt formed over his eyes. He suddenly wanted desperately to blink, so as to clear them, but his eyelids could no longer close, not even for a moment.
And so he lay on the roof under the sky, the moon fixed in the film of his eyes.
And so he lies on the roof under the sky.
I just hope I could visit him.
Sometime after the war, he made out to watch the moon.
First week upon arrival, uniform still on, he came out onto the rooftop of his building. The rooftop was black and empty, the view of the city scarred only by the black antennas around him. Twilight had already set in, and the silver disk of the moon hung just over the horizon of antennas.
He set out then, once and for all, to never take his eyes off the moon.
He lay down, keeping his eyes fixed on it so that he may be able to see it move gradually and not in random ticks of directed glances during the day and night. He lay down, watching the white moon pass over him during the night, following its path as it continued to pass over and under the building as an eternal jump rope, never missing a day, even when it would rain, glowing through the gray overcast like a radioactive copper plate.
Autumn began to approach and his friends, who often watched the moon with him, began to worry that he would not survive the winter. But he would hear nothing about it, and his friends, weary of his abstinence, descended within the building.
The winter passed, and he continued to watch the moon. Hardened by the sun and the city air, his body grew hard and emancipated, washed only by the autumn leaves that came to pass over the roof. Years passed and his body became flatter and flatter, seeping gradually into the thick tar of the roof. Friends no longer came up and relatives visited at increasingly longer intervals, and then no longer visited at all, giving in to the silence of his withering, and ultimately to the silence of their own deaths.
Before her death, however, his mother came to the roof. It was the windiest night in the history of the building and the winds awoke her. They rattled the windows and ripped the dreams of those asleep out of them. Caught in the drafts, the dreams began to mix and intersect, so that soon nobody was sure if their dream was indeed theirs.
The gusts swept into the apartment and out and back within. They passed under the building and above it, sprinkling their remnants over the rooftop. Vigilant, his mother would not let go of her dream. So she held and held, and soon she too was dropped over the rooftop. And so there she sat, watching her son, ignoring the siren of her own death that was rising from the street.
She covered his body with her dream so as to save him from the coming gusts. She sat with him for a short while and went downstairs. Alone, he lay in the tar. He was cold, and feeling his chill the dream began to creep over him.
In it he still lived in his old room, beneath the room of his mother. It was night, and he was leaning out of his window. The moon was out, and his eyes were fixed upon it. Sensing his glance, his mother leaned out of her window, watching him below. But he never saw her. She watched him and he watched the moon, and seeing his eyes fixed on the white gleam she would slowly form small tears, and they would roll down and fall, one by one, until a small drizzle would descend upon him. But he did not feel it. He watched the moon and she watched him and a rainstorm of a thousand tears would wash his face and his hair and he would do nothing about it, never knowing where it came from.
The dream crept over his body, covering him to his neck, tucking him in. There was no one to bother him now, save for the company of the aged dreams resting along his side. Two thin screens of salt formed over his eyes. He suddenly wanted desperately to blink, so as to clear them, but his eyelids could no longer close, not even for a moment.
And so he lay on the roof under the sky, the moon fixed in the film of his eyes.
And so he lies on the roof under the sky.
I just hope I could visit him.
Monday, June 19, 2006
A resurrected suicide
Today I am in Prague.
The kitchen is empty and I sit by the computer, the balcony door open slightly. I exhale a strand of smoke, and it lethargically makes its way outside. There, children race between the trees. Soon it will be time for dinner. The sun has set.
Today I am in Ukraine.
I am hiding behind my sofa. Soon it will be time for dinner. But I do not want to eat. I look out into the yard where I can still hear the muffled sounds of kids playing. I want to go join them.
The memory is so real. I can smell my Great-grandmothers supper. I can hear the kids. I can taste my own feelings at that moment.
Today I am eleven years old.
I am back in my Brooklyn apartment. It is summer, and the air conditioner is on. I am lying on my stomach over my bed, the ever faithful laptop in front of me.
I am writing a book. This summer I will write it. By god, this summer I will do it.
Today I am eleven years old.
I am in Brooklyn.
The air conditioner feeds the air into the room. It is ever the residential oxygen mask. I am lying on my stomach. On the same bed, in the same corner. Telling the same ol' story.
Today I am twenty-two years old.
The years add nothing. They take away nothing.
Only strength.
They can either add it or subtract it.
The choice is, or I like to think is, always up to us.
The kitchen is empty and I sit by the computer, the balcony door open slightly. I exhale a strand of smoke, and it lethargically makes its way outside. There, children race between the trees. Soon it will be time for dinner. The sun has set.
Today I am in Ukraine.
I am hiding behind my sofa. Soon it will be time for dinner. But I do not want to eat. I look out into the yard where I can still hear the muffled sounds of kids playing. I want to go join them.
The memory is so real. I can smell my Great-grandmothers supper. I can hear the kids. I can taste my own feelings at that moment.
Today I am eleven years old.
I am back in my Brooklyn apartment. It is summer, and the air conditioner is on. I am lying on my stomach over my bed, the ever faithful laptop in front of me.
I am writing a book. This summer I will write it. By god, this summer I will do it.
Today I am eleven years old.
I am in Brooklyn.
The air conditioner feeds the air into the room. It is ever the residential oxygen mask. I am lying on my stomach. On the same bed, in the same corner. Telling the same ol' story.
Today I am twenty-two years old.
The years add nothing. They take away nothing.
Only strength.
They can either add it or subtract it.
The choice is, or I like to think is, always up to us.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
The Return
I come out onto the roof. I no longer know where I am. The black rooftop floats like a lost raft amidst lights and buildings. Between the gusts of wind, the lights blink. They wink at me.
In the distance, skyscrapers still scrape the sky. In the distance the sun has set over behind them. Tomorrow it will rise again on the other side. It will find nothing new. All is as it was. All will be as it has been. It will find nothing.
I walk around. I know this raft well. I have sailed through many nights on it. I inspect it for changes. It has none. Several empty beer cans roll around in the wind.
On my sides the island lies empty and dark. A thousand dead babies, the buildings surround me. They blink their windows. People are dining inside, where its lit, in the womb of each child. But the children are not yet pregnant. They are not yet alive. And so the night lies quiet. The river flows empty, only its current swashing on the sides of the raft.
In the womb of the city it is quiet. The children do not speak.
Neither do I.
In the distance, skyscrapers still scrape the sky. In the distance the sun has set over behind them. Tomorrow it will rise again on the other side. It will find nothing new. All is as it was. All will be as it has been. It will find nothing.
I walk around. I know this raft well. I have sailed through many nights on it. I inspect it for changes. It has none. Several empty beer cans roll around in the wind.
On my sides the island lies empty and dark. A thousand dead babies, the buildings surround me. They blink their windows. People are dining inside, where its lit, in the womb of each child. But the children are not yet pregnant. They are not yet alive. And so the night lies quiet. The river flows empty, only its current swashing on the sides of the raft.
In the womb of the city it is quiet. The children do not speak.
Neither do I.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Summertime
Summertime is a time when it rains. When dark factory buildings stand huddled together under an umbrella of their smoke. When drunken college kids pull up their collars in search of the next big place. When florescent lights sway on their wires over the soaked and sterile streets. When Janice Joplin dances within the earphones. When her voice rattles and screams like a tortured electric guitar. No wonder her and Hendrix were around the same time. No wonder they both went so early. Sensitive souls do that. They scream with the rage of their time and expire. They are in tune to the winds and rains that fall to their sides. This world was not for them. This world is not for us.
Summertime is a time when the living’s easy. When the fish are jumping. When your daddy’s rich and you mom is good looking. Summertime is when you hush, little baby, and you don’t – don’t you cry.
Summertime is a time when it rains. When the sky weeps over the rooftops and washes our cheeks with its salt. Summertime is a time when you yearn to rise up singing. To spread your wings. To take to the sky.
As Janice sang, “Until that morning, nothing’s gonna harm you baby.”
It is when we finally sing that this world no longer becomes our stage. We simply outgrow it. We shake off its salt and rise to the sky. The curtain opens then. Its shadow no longer protects us.
Summertime is a time for Janice. Summertime is a time to sing.
The mornings start early then.
Summertime is a time when the living’s easy. When the fish are jumping. When your daddy’s rich and you mom is good looking. Summertime is when you hush, little baby, and you don’t – don’t you cry.
Summertime is a time when it rains. When the sky weeps over the rooftops and washes our cheeks with its salt. Summertime is a time when you yearn to rise up singing. To spread your wings. To take to the sky.
As Janice sang, “Until that morning, nothing’s gonna harm you baby.”
It is when we finally sing that this world no longer becomes our stage. We simply outgrow it. We shake off its salt and rise to the sky. The curtain opens then. Its shadow no longer protects us.
Summertime is a time for Janice. Summertime is a time to sing.
The mornings start early then.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
