the subway smells of piss and lemons.

and I am riding along
and it’s running express
and there is a crumpled newspaper dying
on the seat across from me. it seems
to hold a shape impossible, and
I am writing guesses on slips of paper:

there is a dead pigeon underneath.
there is actual human fecal matter.
it smells of piss and port-a-potty,
it is compost.

a baby cries, it smells of piss.
there are no seats, it smells of piss.
yelling, piss
headache, piss
a man glares at me and piss
leaks from his eyes.

a woman’s nails
match her bag, match
her sweater, it smells
of lemons.

she smiles in her sleep,
a pretty smile, a pile
of lemons.

an old man listens
to quiet music,
nods his head. I

am not running late and
the subway’s not rocking,
and the woman across me
(the one in all orange)
may just
brush my hand
when she reaches her stop.
maybe Not.

in the meantime,
the newspaper’s fallen
all flat.

It was lemons.

It smells of lemons.

thoughts while pissing on a dumpster outside the Brooklyn Public Library

my mother (a principal) calls it “going
wee-wee.” My father calls it “pishin,” no
doubt a vein of the farm his parents
once lived on. My worst ever baby-sitter,
Candy, who my spite is still coddled by
12 years later, called it “tinkling.”
But I have no pretensions, and
when it is against a dumpster outside the
Brooklyn Public Library, the only appropriate
phrase for what I am doing is “taking a piss.”

                                    #

I’m not even drunk right now. Though it
is 4 a.m., and I did just force two
plain donuts down my groping gullet
(poor things, they didn’t even taste good).
But my eyes are not lusty, I do not
feel invincible (quite the opposite,
in fact), and I am not plagued by
breadloaf hiccups, so I am mostly sure
I am not drunk.

                                    #

I hope no one catches me, out here,
with my wiener in my hand. At best,
my penis is usually a wiener. It is
rarely a cock. Right now, it is
definitely a wiener.

                                    #

If I were stopped by the police
right now, could I rightfully
call that “getting busted,” or is
that phrase saved for buddy cop
movies and Law and Order?

                                    #

If I were to be busted by the cops
right now, would the proximity of
my uncovered wiener to the public
library merit a sexual misdemeanor?
Even if I am 95 percent sure the
library is closed? Would it help
if I told them how disappointed
my parents would be? Or said,
“no way I’m a sexual predator-
some of my best friends are kids!”

                                    #

Could I blame it on Miley Cyrus?

                                    #

I feel constantly unimpressed with
how cold New York doesn’t get in
summer, despite the bi-weekly storm.
I always carry a jacket
in my bag just in case. And
because I like how I look in a jacket
more than not in a jacket. If I
were wearing a jacket right now,
it would probably help to cover my
wiener. But, because it is 80
degrees out, and not raining,
I would probably look more crazy.

                                    #

The question of covering one’s
wiener or looking crazy is the
biggest issue America faces today.

                                    #

(PARENTHETICAL ONE:
Shout-out to Carlos Danger for making
a poem about dicks into a political statement,
even though I didn’t mean to.)

                                    #

(PARENTHETICAL TWO:
You know poetry has come a long way
when there are shout-outs in poems.
You don’t know in which direction.)

                                    #

It would be so easy to mug me right
now. But, even a mugger may be
hesitant to approach someone in my
current position. If I were a mugger,
I would not choose the man with his
wiener in his hand if there were other
immediate options.

                                    #

Who did you picture when I said
“a mugger”?

                                    #

I have a library card and pay taxes,
so maybe I’m entitled to this.
Plus, it feels really good. Despite my
fear of getting caught or mugged.

                                    #

I fear that nothing could possibly feel
better than this incredible release.

                                    #

I fear that when I die, this will be
the only poem you remember.

                                  ###

bestseller

in a small room nestled
tightly in the crevice
of a rock-and-roll jukebox
and a statue of George Washington,
the Poets made a nest of a few old couches
and packed their shoes tightly
with the newspapers and coffee stains
they had written their latest works on.

a large quilt was knit with the jackets
they had left at the door,
and was currently being used as a
facsimile Persian rug for the Poets
to stand on. as they each removed
their shoes, to retrieve their fresh
picked verses, they rubbed their socks
against the carpet in order to power
the lights. Everyone wore wool socks
for this purpose, and as it was summer,
they were all too happy to let their feet
breathe anyways.

one man came
dressed as Hercules, and he was kind enough
to strip off his lion’s head and
add it to the patchwork rug.

Spare electricity was beamed out
the lion’s blue glass eyeballs.

the Reading progressed as normal,
but during a particularly rousing
performance of an interpretation of
Ozymandius, s foreign yellow light
entered the room, with no consideration
of what was happening therein.

my first guess was it was Elijah
the Prophet, yet others seemed
to think it was merely a being
trapped between dimensional planes.
luckily, the mystery was cleared up
when we heard a tin voice shout,
“smoke,” somewhere nearby,
punctuated by the siren of a fire engine.

still, the Poets and I, after a real,
legitimate vote, decided to continue
as planned. after a few more
pieces were read, the first lick
of yellow flame declared its
presence from underneath the
floorboards. The lion head lit up,
burning, but the combination of
the blue light it cast and the
saffron embers threw such a pretty
emerald on that moment’s reader
that we just could not leave at that
exact moment. The green light
was particularly appropriate, as this
poet was reading from her nature series.

when it was my turn to read, the room
was pregnant with the lusty flames
and I quickly edited a dramatic
jump through a window into my poem.
Unfortunately,
immediately after my theatrical exit,
the building gave in to the fire,
which kissed the moon once goodnight,
and then sucked itself back into
the ground. I had barely just escaped,
and my pants were thoroughly singed,
but I knew full well the task at hand.

and so, I compiled all the greatest
works of the Poets, and published
them in a posthumous anthology.
the Book, tastefully laid out and
full of tragedy, was compared
by critics to the works of Plath,
Van Gough, and Bukowski. My publisher
removed the short poem I had written
and inserted, as it tainted the overall theme.
I was disheartened, but agreed
with this decision.

The book was a New York Times
bestseller.

no parking Sunday

turning left
on 56th,
I step out of Brooklyn
and into a festival, the
moment my feet leave
the sidewalk.

in the distance I see
the whole street blocked off,
and decide to make my way up
on the pavement.
it feels no different
through the rubber soles
of my one pair of sandals,
but the breeze seems
more accessible, here,
separated from the rising buildings.

without fear of rushing cars,
barbeques have sprung up
to offer all their smells of summer,
and trays full of burgers
are eagerly passed around to
hungry grandmothers, who,
finishing each in three bites,
argue over which has been
prepared best.

children blaze by on tricycles and scooters,
all of which are the same
candy shade of pink.
the kids tirelessly race
each other down the small hill
of this block, before pushing
themselves back to the other end,
scooters dragging limp behind them.
some pass me two, and even three
times as I continue walking,
their hair sailing and smiles
set firm in their cheeks, as the
eyes of mothers hide secretly
behind tables, with
hands ready to spring out
and prevent any impending crash.

an inflatable pool is filled with
young boys in t-shirts, and
cupfuls of water are brandished
against any girls who
make an approach.

a haphazardly tossed Frisbee,
also pink, makes its descent
out of the sky and lands
directly in front of me.

Dare I pick it up?

I too have reveled in games
of catch in the middle of the street,
though one very distant from here.
Perhaps I could toss it back
to the triangle of boys, and,
seeing me join the game,
the men nearby would put down
their deck of cards
and come play as well.

visions of a street-wide game
cross my mind, as well as of me
sitting with the grandmothers
to judge the burgers, and, later,
being taught the secrets of dominos.

Yet,
with a thick book under my arm,
my eyebrows firmly serious, and my
too nervous anticipation of rain,
it becomes clear that this street
was not closed off for me.

so I leave the families
to the cool breezes they have
rightfully won from life.

and I head upstairs.
to apply for jobs, and eat
leftover pasta, and find my hill

that is worth climbing up
just to race down.

the jar on the table outside

I shoved the entirety of my thumb
into the warm, sunsoft candle.
the quicksand wax made lover of my hand,
a burning smother, a warm coat,
the peeling paint of an unkept home. I
thrust deeper. my clenched fist filling
the jar, wax oozing out edges and
impotent dribbles slothing away from
my fingers. the container became one of hand,
of flesh dyed orange, of digits
surrounded by sculpture, wax harden,
carved approximation of man. I probed
secrets out of the candle, of smoke,
liquid, scald, whisper
the way the wick whispers to me:

“Melt.
Melt.
Melt.”

(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.)

how to grow up

Looking for any and all feedback. I have some things I want to work on with this piece, but want to hear what people think of this first draft. Thanks!

Two Poems- Maybe a Set

Have I been reading too much Bukowski? Which is to say, are these too bleak? Should I keep them as a pair? In the second poem, should/could the word “gladiators” be changed for “combatants.” Any and all comments are welcome.

Washington Heights, and Washington Heights Internal 

your hand shook and
the cup of change
followed suit. The sound
of broken glass shattering
my daydream.
“Hey motherfucker,”
nothing but stone on steel,
“spare some change?”
your voice a flint underwater.

I hope madness takes me
before anything is to go.
The homeless woman,
laughing at the trains passing by,
so happy to have her feet up
on the seat.

I could do
that.

Taking Inventory: Union Sq. Park 

hair fading from the tip like
snow peaked mountains of black, black
earth. the voyage of a green tabletop
leading to the green shirt of a much
younger man. Between the two:
a parcheesi board, speckled with
brown and white gladiators and the
blurred apparition of two sets of hands.
the dice are rolled. moves are made.
from me: silence.

let’s get the ball rolling

I’d love to get some feedback on this poem! I’m specifically wondering if the sort of internal rhyme scheme works or is apparent, but then also any other feedback as well.

in the last apartment 
at the end of the island
carving beams out from the fog,
after the trains have started
to whisper and the fireflies
fallen asleep, when even the waves
kiss the beach with less breath,
when even the beach
kisses back with less stone

then, alone, there is a last light
still on, closing in
its distance from me, walking
over the water and calling
my name, and behind it

is you.