April 1
The Family Grey
What a day
like today
all rainy
grey
a day like Seattle
On a day like today
¡qué bajón!
¡qué mamada!
It sucks, doesn’t it
A day like today
it’s real low-down
and dirty, kicking
me when I am down
fighting unfair, daring
me to fight back.
It’s all I can do to
shout back but
I am a pacifist and
we don’t fight, us
pacifists.
But apparently Today
has not heard of
this thing
called “pacifism”
and I will try and
instruct it, and inform –
maybe even hand out a
flyer – and tell him (or her)
that he (or she) must respect
my political beliefs.
I don’t see him going for it.
A day like today
I saw when I woke up
when I went to work
when I left work
when I went to the subway
when I walked up
out of the subway
the grey
which is grey
which is grey
which is grey
and the sky hangs out
hangs
out
outside
outside my window
out through endless Bushwick until Long Island and still hangs
out
over the low built houses
over the water
maybe over until London.
They say it rains a lot there too.
Really, I don’t mind
a day like Today.
I was bred on
days like Today –
I left, abandoned
the whole damn
family of days
like Today.
I’m only afraid
that Today will
follow me,
lonely,
not know
what to do
once I move away.
April 2
The Early Morning Special at the Doughnut café, Broadway and Graham, Brooklyn
I went to breakfast
to get the early bird special
eggs, toast, potato,
grease, oil , grease,
fry ‘em up
onto a plate they go
before disappearing
down the hatch
watch out below.
April 3
Pulling the String
A rebellious marionette,
you have made me,
trained me to respond
the way I do, I did,
and the way I do now,
sitting in the attic,
gathering dust with
time, you, the puppet
master, you, the hand
that would guide, cannot
return to give me life
as you pass by, perhaps
searching for something,
lingering for one moment
too long, for reminiscence.
April 4
work a long shift.
On automatic
forget how to pilot
greet a customer
take an order
carry food and drink
all things that take up space
usually required to think
April 7
Pupa
imperative: I cut out of
of these layers I have
knit about my body
about my
self
not delicate
but oh-so comfortable
where I can nestle at will
tune out or turn off.
impossible, for me,
to continue at the status quo,
but it is a beautiful status quo
that I have created for myself.
I created this!
and in the encasing
about my bodily self
I shed pounds
of my body
and pounds
of my belongings
and in the encasing
about my mental self
I shed tears
and in the encasing
about my spiritual self
I can only shed
forget how to put
the pieces together again
April 8
Poem for the Poetry Vender on Fourteenth and Sixth
I am the only person
I am the one person
I alone hear the guitar player,
in the empty subway station on
fourteenth street and sixth avenue.
The poet who monopolizes
the other end of the hallway,
who would sell his craft,
on demand,
upon request,
does not have any fares,
there is no demand for poetry
at one in the morning on a
tuesday night.
I would stop but I do not,
I do not have money
for a poem, and poems
don’t grow on trees.
Oh! to be a tourist in this city,
To be a tourist in this city,
Blessed are the tourists of this
city, who coo at the pigeons and
fall in love with chaos and
worship in the temple of Rand,
it is comfortable there, there
is hope of salvation, there are
promises that turn tourists
into disciples, who came with a
before and after, but linger,
stay
stay
stay
stay away
let this be but one
stifled inhalation
and exhilaration
let this be but one
holiday
let this be but one
vacation destination
let this be.
April 9
Passover
Passover.
My grandmother.
Food.
Passover.
My grandmother.
My father. My uncles.
Laughter. Rowdy. Jokes
I don’t understand.
Passover
My grandmother.
My Mother. My aunts.
The kitchen.
Chicken fat fumes,
potato and onion
oil oil oil grease
grease grease.
The back porch
My mother. My aunts.
Illicit cigarettes.
Illicit smoke.
Passover.
My grandmother.
The gefilte fish.
Uncles of mine.
Brothers of mine.
Cousins of mine.
Passover.
April 13
I am not a robot.
Don’t think you can oil my hinges when they creak.
I cannot be taken to the tune-up shop when in disrepair.
I cannot ingest the refuse that others will not accept.
I cannot withstand intemperate climates.
I have a shelf-life, or that you can be sure.
I am impatient
I do not obey
I do not understand orders
and occasionally do not listen to direction.
There is no manual to operate me;
I cannot be operated.
I eat food.
I do nothing on command,
not sleep, eat or fuck
although my nature dictates that I will do all three.
I have no routine.
My outer layer is not shiny smooth
nor is it impenetrable.
It is not impermeable
nor is it rust proof
bullet proof
crack proof
dent proof
waterproof
nor emotion proof.
I will not outlast no
test of time.
April 15
Somewhere in the southwest
there may be a cyclone.
somewhere there may be
a Dorothy, about to be swept
away from home.
April 16
Bed Rest.
STRIKE STRIKE STRIKE
my body shouts to me.
it has formed this union
under my nose, under
my skin, under and over
and through and around
my fleshy breathing self.
it has collectivized, to claim
its rights, this body that has
labored so willingly, it seemed,
for all these years.
ABUSE ABUSE ABUSE
calling for the social worker
my body protests against
the ill use
the stress bearing
the over looking
oversight
we are past
the point of negotiation.
I say:
this body is attention-
mongering,
but as I
am convalesced, there
is not choice but to
hand over leadership
to the collective masses.
April 19
Renunciation of a love song
I cannot continue as I have
as I haven’t
as of waiting for you to
save me as if you were my
own personal idyll idol
as if I
as if I
as if we
were.
April 20
Lastima
Not ready to go
I really can’t stay
there’s something
that keeps me
like a curse it tricks me
I can’t think it away
April 21
only music.
that only music
if only I could play
that only music
if it were only
what poured from me
instead of this ink
this awful ink
that stains the lovely front carpet
a blouse
an undesired spot
impossible to get out
stained.
April 26
Your eyes are always turned
upwards, they are hung up on
terraces & façades, caught
between bricks, in the mortar,
gliding over marol monuments,
you miss the sky, do not see
the prints you make in the dust,
and the color of faded tiles,
up, up, up. Here, the sun turns
to fall. Here, I put pressure in
your hand. Here, you must look
before crossing the street.
