On Ice

 (this is a poem I wrote a few months ago but recently changed the title and one single word that essentially makes it an entirely different poem… I’d like to eventually start submitting it so pah-lease, read me y’all!)

 

On Ice 

 

When he folds in tight and shapes around you like melted wax,

his body a hinge in the night, nestling you closer,

 

you join the mice in the walls on the roof for a cigarette.

 

When the mice won’t eat the poison

or step foot in the traps,

 

you get a cat.

 

Your favorite word is tomorrow.

 

You’re always meaning to do the laundry

or paint the dressers

or put that last screw in the base of the bed.

 

You do not question that he loves you.

 

But just as you know that he is whole,

you know that you are much too safe.

 

You are sure that it is time for the breaking;

time to scrub the dishes, rake the leaves, burn 

 

some sage and say your peace.

 

You’ll get to it.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

 

It’s the chilliest day of the week.

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poem for a chalk Robert Downey Jr.

it only took the artist
being gone for five minutes
for a woman to role her
metal cart over the realistic
chalk rendition of
Robert Downey Jr. on
the sidewalk outside
Union Square Park.

and worse

she did it with disdain!
she actually looked down,
saw the thing,
walked RIGHT over it,
and smirked at her petty
triumph. I wanted

to yank her back by the hair
and shove her nose in it,
like a dog that defecates
on your rug. “Bad
middle aged lady! No!
No ruining the pretty picture!”
I wanted to yell at her.

Or
to pay her in turn;
showing up at her work
(my guess in middle management)
and shuffling her papers,
unalphabetizing her rolodex
and removing paintings of
boats and pastoral scenes
from her walls.

all it would have taken
was a slight adjustment
of her trajectory, and
she would not have rubbed
all the yellows, and blues,
and reds together and
blown dust in everyone’s eyes.

And I was with
the artist, and I was her,
and I was everyone taking
the pictures, and I was the
quarters in the hat and we all
lamented the loss
of the beautiful chalk

Robert Downey Jr.

time for a change

I’m not sure what this is meant to be. Or maybe… I have an idea of what is happening, but I would rather hear other thoughts instead of sharing mine and possibly giving too much away. Which is all to say, let me know what you think!

the first pulls out easy.
a blonde hair that had snuck
its way into my black,
the opposing side’s rook,
so opposite my ancestry of
dark haired, dark skinned
obsidian. the second,
like the first, takes little
effort to pry free of its
small plot on my chin.
soon, I am ripping away
chunks, three and then
eight at a time, of gnarled
weeds, taking the skin
with them
.                      It smarts.
Each falls to the sink
and joins the other twisted,
coarse, dead stalks as
my chin begins to redden.
then, even a small dot of
blood starts the path past
my bottom lip, until a slow
drip has grown. But I
am too far along now for
fixing, and make the last
desperate yanks that will
free me of this face.
And it stings, and the
smell is unbearable
as I light the small pile.

but they look so pretty
burning up.

this is the poem i want to be remembered by

there’s lots of talk
of electric cars, of
moon bases and jet packs,
but no one ever mentions
what wigs will look like
in 100 years.

They will have to be different.

A scientist will find
a way to grow human hair
on a mouse’s back. or
an explorer
will discover a mysterious root
in the heart of Brazil, which,
when laid across a bald scalp,
will attach itself and grow
an afro-like moss.

or, in an act of rebellion
against a society
hell-bent on preserving
“morally righteous” haircuts,
teenagers, in 3013, will begin
to wear brightly colored
and oddly shaped wigs. But this
will become the norm. And so,
in increasing efforts of
out-cooling one another,
the wigs will have to grow
more elaborate, looking less and
less like human hair.

Hats will be obsolete.

Barbers
will go out of business.

The bald will rejoice!

It will no longer be strange
to look out the window
of your fourth floor apartment
and witness an ocean
of clashing colors and
Dali-esque hairpieces.

And I,

I will don
a ten-story tall wig.
Bright pink, with sections for children to
play in and a slide that goes
from the top to my feet.
I will be

cooler

than all
of you.

(and you, et all)

“You are something that the whole universe is doing.”
-Alan Watts

atop the leaves, shaped
and painted like the olive eyes
of orange cats, where the
tallest tree stops stretching
its bounty of arms,
a stone face presents itself,
unasked for, bellowing
“God resides in me,” its crown
flanked by two towers where
bells tell when it is god’s hour,
and gargoyle cross watches
the last red drops
of sun get sucked from
the sky.

and I am so small
staring down this stone monolith
this Goliath man made beast
oh you parishioner and priest
do you not know
god also resides
in me.

breath of a summer

what a pleasurable sensation.
so sweet a trickle- my toes,
so sticky my shoes so soon
to follow. I stepped
on a peach.
Her warm rotted breast making
mess of my sandals, the
easiest route to then tickle-my-toes,
the lapping and pooling of both
as my heels then opened
their mouths, learning to taste
for the first time.
(and sticky all the way home.)