Notes from the sky
Constellations coming down
A sudden C-sharp; the fall of F-minor
Chords being torn from the Milky Way
The universe in a solemn key
poems
Parfait
Destitute for the brush of Bacon, who will depict you in some shunga scrolls. A statue from the Orient with no mind. Your eye shadow the flush tones of Dali. Wedding cake of a face, you sweeten the leaf of Arches. The bugs are dancing beneath your lamp like at a disco.
Sushi
Sushi as an aesthetic pleasure. Sushi as status symbol. Sushi as art form.
Bluefin tuna doomed. Salmon spoken for. Mackeral and halibut had it. Sea urchin and sardine goners.
My ink spills like whale blood. Embattled octopus.
A Thursday
Outside it is silvery like a side of fish. Books are spread before me and coffee. Both are oxygen. I sip, trying to stay alive in this muck. My cat has had it (already), asleep at my feet. I’m trying to respond to my environment by writing this poem and then it’s off to work. I’ll have to save these Scarlatti keyboard sonatas, too, for later in the day.
The Dealership
The salesmen are tall & talk on cellphones
They pace & trade jokes; one is holding forms
The showroom floor, meanwhile, looks slippery
It’s gleaming & white like a smile w/ flawless teeth Continue reading “The Dealership”
Yogurt
I am taking forever and ever to eat my yogurt. The creamy substance is something to stir and stir with my teaspoon until homogenized and then remove gently with my mouth, using no teeth, only tongue and lips.
The pomegranate seeds are a bitter, crunchy counterpoint. Still, we must bear the unpalatable in order to be more present during the blissful — even if it is, in this case, bacteria that somehow rivals Reddi Wip
With the yogurt, the bottom of the cup is something to scrape and scrape — the spoon something to leave in my mouth as a I carry the cup to the kitchen and drop it into the trash, comforted by the thought of another and then another waiting in the fridge to be eaten.
There had been times
There had been times
There had been times
There had been times.
Wednesday Evening
The smell of the workweek is fried fish —
on the verge of burning
and flaccid green beans —
pushed to their limits.
The sound is of arguing & stomping —
the clinking of dishes
the television sparks —
a war in Tel Aviv
The setting off of lawn sprinklers
The smell of moisture on concrete
upstate lunch
What Doris was
was sandwiches & mustard
husband Joe drinking cold Michelob
Him with a bottle & belch at the table
beat up dungarees and missing teeth
Feral cats squatting his gutted & rusted bug
and his decrepit mitt in the shed
that smelled of cigarettes Continue reading “upstate lunch”
slip silently, by yourself, away 