LOCAL POETRY ANNOUNCEMENT

Friday, May 2nd, from 7:30-9 p.m.

The Euterpe Group, hosted by Ginger Williams and
Carolyn Emerson, presents Performance of Poetry, by Frances Roth, at
The Emma Clark Memorial Library
120 Main Street
Setauket

For more information call or email Carolyn Emerson at 941-4080 or carolyn@emmaclark.org

all those pretty girls

the parenthetical spring takes it's cue
from the forsythias
twining together these perfect
blue shaded days
with a sweet breeze
bending the first grass,
bowing in concert,
harmonizing the song birds
picking up house over the pond.

this morning's sun, through the old
church, shook up the glimmer of
her seasonal lips and the organic dew on
her face buried
in neighborhood blond or Spanish brown hair.
The faces of all those pretty girls,
weeping.

all those pretty girls kissed you
in your sleep
and in waking life.
in your car and on your couch.
you kissed them softly and with all
that primal hunger
your addiction created.

All those pretty girls
clutching all those white wet tissues
walk through remembering your
forsythia smile and sun beamed hair
returning to the nest of your
Father's embrace.

-----

i just wrote this and i don't know how i feel about it.

Creating

He was lonely,
So, He decided to make
someone in His image
from sticks and stones,
and mud for bone.

The rib was borrowed,
from Lilith and her ilk
and blood stolen from the sea
Running over trees and under
mountains smooth as silk

his eyes were stars,
to view all of His creation
arms were attached, and legs
were given, so he could swim
within His leviathan.

Lungs used to speak
and a stomach to eat
Things like apples and oranges
Finally, a Liver to hold his liquor and a
heart for Him to break

But what of a name?
He ponders slowly, what will
he be? This creation of mine needs a
title, to be given freedom and identity.
In an ultimate act of love,

I will call him Son.

LOSING HER

The surgeon gasps
disbelief
at the empty O.R.
table.
Moments ago
a patient
anesthetized, prepped, and draped
abdomen open
on this table.

Breaking scrub
I leave
the empty O.R.
brisking through
the central core
the narrow corridor
to Recovery.

Shouldering the automatic
door button
my entrance accompanied
by double door hiss,
“Where is my patient?”
I spin, survey
white sheets, slipper-socks
for a spot of blood
a moment of recognition.

In a haze,
I return
to the empty O.R.
table. Trying to
remember
what I did
how I worked
what I lost there.

Agnes, this is
all your fault
for making me write down
my dreams.

Snooze Button

[The result of 3 consecutive entries into my dream book about the same darn person:) so i wrote a poem about it..and the virtues of no morning mandatory class]

I have noticed
That i will
waste away
reckless
feckless
half the day
coddled between
sheets and fleece
my head buried in
a pillow encased in
a case that is not
a pillowcase but
an old tee of yours
that used to smell like you
and your detergent but
now smells like me
because my
conditioner
and my shampoo
have now replaced
every trace of you
in the fibers
and that is exactly the way
for the rest of the day
the sweet dreams of you
will be replaced
displaced
by the running around
and falling down
and picking up
and acting out
and pseudoliving
while somewhat dying inside
with infinite longing
and though by day
i may have infinite
thoughts of you
and i will strain
my brain
i will try in vain
to conjure up an image
half as real
as what might
come to me by night
in sleep
and if i squeeze my eyes
shut very tight
and avert my face
from the encroaching light
i can hold on to you
and somehow
someway
drag you into the reality
of the day
and so to the great detriment
of productivity and my own
betterment
I am sleeping in.

I push off my armrests and stand up like it’s any other Monday, Wednesday, Friday, 11AM.
And there she is again, aisle seat, front and center.
“You should say something.”
What? Who said that? Probably that part of me that I don’t know too well.
But without thought, without any preplanned tactic,
I begin to drift through the crowd, gliding on weightless legs.
I’m not in control anymore.
The decision is made—who made it, I don’t know—and my heart begins to race.
My neck is pounding, and I am certain that I am pulsating as a whole,
A red giant about to explode in supernova—letting everything out, left bare and vulnerable.
I can’t hear anything and I can’t feel my clothes.
I have become a set of floating eyes, no more, no less, numb to all around me.
Yet somehow this feels right.
I focus on nothing and the canvas of my mind is blank;
If I think too much about it I’ll get scared and turn away.
Hold your breath, close your eyes, whatever—just do it.
I love that slogan—so simple yet so meaningful.
“You’re thinking, Alan. Stop.” Who said that?
Just do it. Don’t think about it. Just do it.
“But what do I say? What if she…”

“Hi, I’m Alan…”

Walk Into The Fog

WALK INTO THE FOG

Walk into the fog
of the early morning
of the early spring.
Feel the mist that
clings
Filling your pores
with liquid air.

Face the fog
as the sun warms
warns
The light at the end
clarity
may not be far.

Walk into the fog
each step and stride
longer
faster
Understanding
the fog is not a wall.

Walk into the fog
of the early fears
of the early years.
Feel the mist that
lifts
and disappears.
Remembering
why you are here.

To the Trees

Sweet seducing Spring

Tempting me out, out

To the sun.

 

To the Trees,

Waving to me with each

Soul-tugging breeze

 

I stare and yet,

I know that I cannot lie

Under the young buds.

 

====================

I am beyond the glass,

Where I must stay with

Volumes and stagnant air.

 

But I have found

On these pages,

In this book,

 

Reflections of branches,

The same fractal symphony

In arteries and airways.

 

I am a Tree too it seems,

Rooted in this chair,

Green from the fluorescent

Insomniac sun

 

Thirsty to absorb

What I can

With the hope that

It is enough to sustain me.

-------------------------------

I am also thirsty for some editing advice : )!  I wrote this last night in the dream book!  I tried to rework it some more tonight and added punctuation...help!  

This week's assignment

Hi guys! Guess I'm as addicted to this as you are! This week's "assignment" is to let me know which (if any or all) poems you are submitting to The Stony Brook School of Medicine Medical Journal (phew, does that thing have a name yet?). You can type it in as a comment under this post, or post separately.

Don't forget, April 17th, is "Poem in Your Pocket Day." There is a group of crazy white-haired poets giving out poems at Grand Central Station. An equally fanatical, but possibly less scary thing to do would be to pick a poem off of this blog, print it up, stash it in your pocket and share it with people you see on Thursday. Let me know who your best/ funniest/ most unlikely poetry victim is!

oh sad....

i feel ya, ben.
i'm still waiting for alan and james to post their poems they read last week.
gentlemen? we'd like more words, please!

Hi everyone

I was sitting around and wondering when our next assignment was going to be posted and then I realized that we were done. : (

Ben

Hearing past the hurt

Hearing past the hurt

Had it been me I would never have done that to you

You never listen – why don’t you listen to me?

Had it been me, I would always have stayed true

I felt so trapped – I just wanted to be free.

This isn’t love – this high stakes game we play

And yet I loved you so much, I only wanted for your trust

But now it is over and all we were has been tossed away

In the end I only did what I felt I must.

You said you cared, that no one had ever made you feel like this

I didn’t mean them, those words I said were careless

And yet you went on and betrayed me with a Judas kiss

I only loved you, and yet you made me feel worthless

I thought it would be fine, that I could look past the hurt

You whom I cherished, could make me feel so bad.

But our love had to die, in its infancy it was cut short.

This had to end, you made me feel so sad.

You never listen - are you even listening now?

This is so hard, I thought I would always be with you

No wonder it ended. It was going to last ...how?

But your mistrust destroyed this – if only you knew…

I know there is someone better suited for me out there.

It will be hard, adjusting to life with you missing

Someone who will not just listen but also hear.

But it was unavoidable - you never listened.

Just Outside A Clean, Well-Lighted Place

Walking home, the unhurried waiter came upon his young coworker huddled over a dark shadow just outside the arc of light from a street lamp. He had been walking only a few minutes, and if he looked back he could still see the light from the café. Drawing closer, he saw that the shadow was in fact the old man. He was huddled on the ground, motionless. The younger waiter was crying.

“What happened?”

“He died. On his way home from the café.”

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t know. I found him here, under the streetlight.”

“He’s not just drunk?”

“He’s not breathing. He’s dead.”

“His eyes—he looks like he was scared to death!”

“Hombre, please don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am the reason he was out here. I made him leave the light of the café and go out into the nothing.”

“Nada.”

“Si, nada! He would have stayed another hour at the café had I not rushed him.”

“It’s not your fault. You had a wife waiting in bed for you.”

The younger man wiped his eyes with his fists, and took a deep breath.

“Yes, a wife. She is probably starting to worry….”

“And your youth.”

“I suppose it is the order of things, after all.”

“And you have the café. You should get some rest before your shift tomorrow night.”

“You’re right. I should be going. But who will tell his niece to come get him?

“I will tell her. I am in no rush, and I am not working tomorrow night.”

“Ah, you are a good man.”

“Careful getting home; the alleys are still in darkness.”

“Adios.”

“Adios.”

The unhurried waiter sat down on the stone beside the old man. He pulled out his watch—five o’clock. The sun would be up soon.  He would sit there until someone passed on the way to work, and then he would go and find the niece. While he waited, he spoke to the dead man, though he had been deaf even in life. And as he spoke, the light came, and he forgot himself as another night passed into nothing.

__________

I've always loved Hemmingway's short story, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place, and this is my pathetic attempt at a sequel. I thought the conversational format of the original might be a good springboard for this assignment.

 

 

Road Trip

“We can’t have lost our way,
after meticulously mapped plans
in the works
for so long
Saving up the money
to pay the tolls
Swerving to avoid the pot holes
I’ve hardly slept
And never slept at the wheel
Yet lost,
We can’t be
And still I feel…”

“But its been such a lovely drive
the setting suns and the russet rise
so heartbreakingly beautiful
every tall tree
who whipped past
and beckoned us to rest
with him awhile
in deciduously, leafy irresistible style
but you had to press on
and we left them behind
lost?
We may be
And it’s all your fault…”

A wail from the back
The little one cries
Ignorant of destinations, mileage, and miles
Per hour, Each boring hour,
Carried along, not moved
To gaze at the moon
She wished she’d stayed home
And watched cartoons.

“We can’t be lost
I know that we’re not
I’m not worried about lost
I worry about late
I’ve had it all figured out
To the minute
To the hour
To the date…”

“You wouldn’t know a date
if it bit you on the nose
what’s lost you know
is romance and
its lost on you
every single thing you do
is cold hard fact
scientific steal
with a hardened heart
and your leaden foot
you’ll get us all killed
I know you think
But don’t you feel
If you feel lost
I think we should
Stop
Before we get pulled over
By the cops…”

Big tears roll down
Baby skin silk
(What do I have to do
to get some freaking
cookies and milk?!?!)

“We can’t stop now
You pathetic fool
Not after hitting
All the traffic
over by the school
and stopping at the outlet malls
to buy you something pretty
and no
I don’t need to ask for directions
Not after all that
Investing
In this stupid navigation system
And it wouldn’t kill you
To take your nose
Out of that romance novel crap
And look instead
At the goddamn map.”

“ Why stare down
when I can stare at stars
seat-belted in
glittering beauty above
a dance below
my heart still sings
and reaches for things
of genuine worth
that by their position
are guiding us north.”

The infant babbles
Naïve pretension
She thinks she deserves to be
The center of attention.

“North did you say?
We should be taking this
South!
Just a sec
I’ll turn around.
I’m so glad we found…
We’ll be back on our way
In no time at all
And when we get there
I promise
I swear
To it, I will see
That for you
and for me
for all three
There stands a strong and singular
Tree.”

Address: Diamond Wishes & Square Demands

I
Like
to Sleep
Freshly showered in cleanest sheets and floral scents
With windows open and cool breeze caresses
Brushing my cheeks all night and morning
LATE morning,
Very Late…

Alarm or no alarm regardless
Chocking starts at 7
Dress quickly, forget breakfast
Brush teeth with a trembling hand and glazed look

I
Like
to Cook
and nurture
Making the healthiest dishes I should be a mommy
A good mommy, patient and playful
There are many ways to relish and play games
I’m a woman of preferences and I prefer
Not to start my day before you, every morning.
Nor let the indent of my body evaporate
With every misty dawn
From my side of the bed;
A side that I don’t want.
I want it all,
With you
In it.


Walk fast, ignore lunch
Chest clenching, stomach churning
Time is slipping, adrenaline rushing
Inner core a metal weight
Shaking myself off of myself
Tears drop from internal wringing
Piece of cloth and loss of control
Sublimation within domination
Rising to a place where desires End
and merge into a single entity
Vertigo
Survive and attack the next hurdle
Work Hard, Do Well, Forget to sleep/eat/talk/blink

I
Like
to Think
With strands of grass between my fingers and toes
Oh heaven knows…
My mind and Body demand great expanses, wide open spaces
Bathing in the sun Sun bathing
There is No claustrophobia in my painting
My tongue is biological Not academic
Deep and light conversation continues
In my mind
Even when it ends in all other milieus
My language is languid, slowly pouring
As I’m a pumping vessel
That won’t run dry.
Give me a damn minute to release.
I haven’t expressed in a decade
And my words are
Linked by
Cobwebs.

...I
Like
Spiders.
I forgot I did.
Same as I forgot I had a sense of humor.
And nice shoes in the closet,
Which I should wear; heels make one slow one’s pace.
The only perfection in this world is lack-thereof.
I’m looking for a place to live; space for 2.

Address:
Apt #1, Moderation Ave
City: BREATHEwithoutHYPERVENTILATING
State: W.N.P.L (Work Now Play Later)

Kiddo

You’re too sensitive, you know?

Yes I said it, and you’ve always known it

It’s time to tackle it and finally grow

Up, upwards be strong damnit!

 

See it’s not just the tears

It’s that overpowering overthinking

The one cradling the fears

Being loved, held and still wondering

 

Did I turn off the fucking stove?

It’s the uncertainty that’s most painful

Dilly-dallying that I loathe

Relax, breathe, live, be peaceful

 

So you’re OCD, yet you smile

You don’t have to turn empathy

Into some weakness on trial

Yet you’ve exposed it openly

 

As you do with everything

Impaired no longer

On Saturday, April 5, 2008, my friend and colleague Dr. David Goldstein passed away suddenly. When I got the news Saturday, it struck me that we were just talking about him in class last Wednesday, as the subject of my poem, IMPAIRED. Here is a poem I wrote for him that day. I knew if anyone could appreciate it, you guys would.

HEARTS

for David and Mom

Last night, the Poet said

Keep hearts out of love

poems. What about death?

Your death, your hearts

broken

still

bursting

when they did

with too much

love I

hope not

worry I

fear

We had our warnings.

Twinges, denied

as strain or fatigue.

Outbursts, we thought

all could be

controlled

on meds.

We didn't get a chance

to deny you

a third time.

No chance

for a poem

without

hearts.

Help Me

What do you know about redemption?

Asks the masked man to the street side prophet

Because my feet have touched twenty states

And bathed in four different oceans

I have seen sunsets over beaches

and sunrises on mountains

Falling stars over deserts

And holy searches in abandoned churches

Seekers of the lost city Atlantis

Never had a thing on me

I have been looking for the same damn thing

Since the day they set me free

What I learned has nothing to do with you

Soothsayer; the deceptions and lies, the fears

I have fooled you to the ends of the earth

All I have to show are closed doors and empty stairs

And yet I judge each their sins

Measuring each other through drops of mercury

As heavy as air and as hot as fire

My faults will always be a mystery

Drowned with Dionysus and drunk with love

One of these things are not what they seem

And I am still learning that the answers that I

Seek will never be the questions I solve

So, what of you, masked man? Asks the prophet

Why is it that we reach for each other,

but never save ourselves - as lovers drowning

Is it because we are all that we have left?

love as horsehoe crab

I didn't know how to approach this assignment so I wrote a poem inspired by the poetry event I went to at Emma Clark on Friday night. Long Island means so many things to me so I decided to write a poem about it.

A shopping mall named after our prized
gay bearded naturalist who
poet about justice winds, willows,
ferns and truth and sounds,
exemplifies the nature of our island.
From my house, I smell the great Jones
salt cloudless sky, beach wood
seagulls pecking at Nathan’s wrappers.
The sand, white in summer as
the rich North Shore cocaine noses.

He told me to write about horseshoe crabs
as love, instead of hearts.
I never told anyone that
skeleton boat fishing in the nineties,
cold wet windy fleece sticking to my icy arms
with those other snotty fifth graders,
I fell in horseshoe crab with the chill blue horizon,
seeing my island for the first time through
fish and yes, brown prehistoric benign dangers.

How virtuous then to build a tower of money
in the name of a man who bartered with words,
ears full of grass flutes, praising the proximity
to the sea, colors of holy greatness.
His sigh, that waft of thick ocean air
hovering over Glen’s Cove, knows little
of the newly birthed, great American tradition
of undoing nature with exhaustion.

Tiger Lily

Where were you when I needed you?
Did you depart my mind
On a misguided mission to blossom in someone else’s life?
Or did you instead lie desiccated
In the depths of my soul
As absent as a tiger lily in winter

You are fierce
As sharp and equipped as steel
You’ve chased down every enemy
While carrying me with you in safety

But you abandon
And I, the naked center lie unprotected
As a small fire attempts to survive the steady attack
Of wet snow
I struggle to keep our roots warm
So you can’t die with me

I am a force
An impermeable caregiver
To myself and others
I have survived wild blizzards
Preserving a compass
A solid magnet pointing upwards
Imbedded as in the brains of migratory birds
Who always come home

Yet even I must sleep
I dare say I’ve hibernated
When the weather gets too cold
But you and I, we are forever connected
I can never leave you

And me? I am warmth
I am a solitary flame
Calming the chill of others
I am a vessel to carry your sorrows
A vessel to hold and nurture
And yes, it is me
Who coaxes
Your first
Green
Fingers
Upwards
Again

PHYSICIANS AS POETS

Time is running short, and I know I promised we would discuss some poetry by physicians. First, listen to the reading of a terrifying moment in the operating room, by Welsh poet, Dannie Abse as he reads his poem In the Theatre. The Poetry Archive is another great website, based in the UK to hear poetry read by poets.

Stony Brook's own Dr. Jack Coulehan is a widely published poet. Here, he gives some commentary on his beautiful poem, The Man With Stars Inside.

Of course, there are those rare physicians who will be more famous as poets than as doctors. You will find that they write less about clinical, medical moments, more about life. Like William Carlos Williams in Danse Russe and Winter Trees.

For a portrait of a physician in conflict, check out the Poetry Foundation bio of Rafael Campo. If you survive that dissection, read his poem, The Distant Moon, and you can decide for yourself just how well he resolves these conflicts in his poetry.

None of these readings are required or mandatory. Just thought you might like the links all in one place.

Guilt

You waited
But I ran
and then returned
My fault or yours?
I touched your cheeks
You hesitated, then held my hand
The signals were clear
No, let’s stop!
But…
Of course, it’s wrong
Ah, who cares about him?
This is what we want
Let’s be selfish
Then, again, let’s not
I’ve seen this before
It doesn’t end well
Now what?
It’s already done
Me, you, him
Me, you, not him
Take it back
No, it was just a kiss
But he’s my best friend
And you’re, well…
He wouldn’t care
We’ll sit around and watch MTV
I’ll be just like before
Shit, what have I done
I’m sorry it was him
But glad it was you

Meet me at Manns

Meet me at Manns

We always said we’ll meet at Manns

In 10 years time – we promised

When this is all over

All said and done.

Two ever young spirits

Perched precariously on a bike built for one

Speeding down a hill at 30 miles and hour

And laughing

Laughing into the wind

Laughing at the brisk autumn night

Laughing at the future.

We always said we’ll meet at Manns

On my birthday, 10 years in the future we solemnly promised

When time has passed and we have gone our separate ways

But this moment will remain.

Whether you are married or I

Maybe with a toddler trailing along

But we said we’ll meet at Manns.

No one has ever known me like you have

I always did say – known me inside and out like that

Let’s not lose this, sometimes you will add

And then we’ll collapsed into fits

Laughing at our silliness, laughing at our sudden seriousness

Laughing at the future.

Some people say once something is broken,

It cannot be fixed; those are not the people I listen to

When two soul mates are met to be,

Neither time, nor distance

Nor life nor death can ever separate them.

We always said we’ll meet at Manns - there I’ll wait ten years on for you....

How's This For Writing My Own Vows, Bitch?

I hate her
And no one can know it
She brought it upon herself
She must have
Because she is always in control
Perhaps she always was
She brought me upon herself
She had to have
Me, and brought me to my knees
Well one knee precisely
And I offered her a ring
She cried, or I thought she did
But the wet sheen may have been
A triumphant gleam
Because from then on she was
Demonic- the diabolical
Procurement of magazines
The obsessive observation of
Every
Single
Bride related broadcast known to Man
And unknown to men in general
She tortured me
With thousands of pictures of cake
Before I could take one bite
And thousands of pictures of dresses
And they all looked
More or less
Like the monstrous cakes
I’d seen before.
I told her she should just pick a cake
… and stand in it.
She didn’t like that very much.
At one point, I would have loved
To eat it off of her.
And I would have loved
To tell her that, except
At this point, I’m sure
She didn’t like me very much.
But I still love her
Even though I hate her
And no one can know it
Because a guy can’t say it
But they must know it
Because I shut up
When she told me to
And I wore a tux
And showed up
When she told me to.

Afraid

Alone in this dark place

Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide

I am scared

Scared of dying

Scared of being forgotten

They say writers are immortal

But I, unlike them, would leave without a trace

What is this place we call world anyway?

A place that reaps us of our laughter, happiness

And leaves us empty

This world is like pandora’s box

Once opened, all our joys escape

Leaving only a heart laden with sadness and fear

The irony of it however is,

I would endure it till I take my last breath……

I sing in the shower

I see Her every day on the bus

She always sits alone

Even when we are all sitting in 3s and 4s.

Everyone says She has a farting disease.

 

I don’t think I believe in farting diseases

But I never sit with Her because

I’m afraid everyone will say

I got the disease, too.

 

I’m kind of weird--

I don’t like soccer, and

I can’t climb the rope in gym.

I like science.

 

All I can do is not sit with Her

And sometimes, I walk by Her and mutter, “Ew!”

Just loud enough so

The kids in the back can hear me.

 

One day a pretty girl was telling her friend,

Saying she heard Her singing in the shower after gym.

So I when I walked by I teased Her,

“You sing in the shower!”

 

She never used to cry

when they called Her “Farter”

Or when I would say stuff to Her.

She always just made this stupid face.

 

But this time She cried

Not like I cried when I fell of my bike

It was like when they said my friend’s mom died

And he had to go home.

 

It was like She was crying

Cause Her mom died.

It was like She was a baby

And someone stole Her.

 

After that, I never saw Her again.

She didn’t come back to school,

And everyone said She died of the farting disease.

I don’t think I believe in farting diseases,

But whenever they say that I almost cry.

 

Haunted

When I was 8, he took me to school one time.
He made me sit in the backseat because
Charlie always sat in the front.
But in the back, the windows didn’t even work.
Mom would let me sit in the front;
I don’t like Charlie.

When I was 12, he insisted that we set a place
At the dinner table for Charlie.
“After all,” he said, “a man’s got to eat.”
As I picked at my green beans and mashed potatoes
They started bickering about mom’s pot roast.
“Charlie says he can’t eat this crap.”

The breeze drifts across the porch,
And dissolves this blanket that engulfs me.
The ice cubes have already melted
And my glass sweats like I do.
The clouds are strewn about,
Spread thin by stratospheric winds,
The twilight sky a buttered toast of blue.
There are decisions to be made.

“Stop it! Stop talking to me!
What did I ever do to you—”
His voice permeates the house,
Angry tones but underneath frustrated, defeated.
The ghosts have worn him thin,
Watching him and taunting him
A glass shatters against the wall;
Charlie dodged it yet again.

The cedar porch swing rocks to and fro, and mom says,
“From the sky I reckon it’ll be a windy day tomorrow.”
There are decisions to be made.

safe

White

water lilies

float

atop the pond;

a petaled quilt

to keep

me

warm.

“I am not a conqueror.”

Oh I can tell you some tales,
I can, oh man, I can
regale like no other,
Hush, hush, kiddo,
don’t go telling your mother.
You might be another hero
yourself,
you know?
Tip top.
Like your pop, and his pop,
yours truly, no weasel.
Rather, a conqueror,
unruly,
in the Flesh.
They think it’s genetic,
this fresh, frenetic bursting
at the seams.
Know what I mean?
Dynamo-kinetics,
it’s in the genes.

Now you’re on the edge
of your seat, wow
Do you want to know
How to swing a fist?
Or how to get kissed
By the ficklest filly?
Or maybe a mare?
Don’t blush,
Mister, you’re gonna’
bear down and crush ‘em
into thin air.
Dead.

Did your old man
ever tell you I was
in the war too?
Dropping bombs on Japan?
You must understand
This medal…
You’re a man… we do that kind of thing.
Yours is a line, a goddamn circle,
It’s a whole circus of heroes
You’re going to keep this for us
Be a good boy and bring my pills a little
Closer, see, I can’t… It’s not been me
For weeks it’s not me, growing
Worse.

Kiddo.
You’ve got to conquer.
Beat the living
Piss out of it.
And don’t sit, don’t
Wither and idle
Pissing through a tube,
I did
Give up on passing liquid,
When I sprouted boobs
After they removed
That “hyperplasia”
And my balls too.
Who knew
There was a woman underneath
Who grew.
As I shriveled,
Became lighter
I can’t fight her.
I am not a conqueror
Anymore.

IMPAIRED

David! David! Do you dare
Fight the demons in the night?
Clutch your chest, gasp for air
Lose your balance, lose your sight?

Patients saw you. So did we—
Other doctors, stood in fright
Turned our heads, “It couldn’t be,
One of our own has lost the light.”

We denied it, long and fast
Said you tired. Don’t we all?
No, we Don’t! The ones that last
Carry on and watch you fall.

Who could save your sister’s life?
Who can stop your father’s shakes?
Who will make you love your wife?
Who should hide your worst mistakes?

Doctor! Doctor! Have you gone
Fighting demons in the night?
In the end you were alone.
In the end it was not right.

pomegranate martinis

Oh shut up
What’s it to you
If I smile a little easier
Or don’t…
It is some warmth
Harsh but soothing
Gently liberating
See…
There really is no difference
Between you and I
Or is it me and you
Just stop…
You and your lame weekend
Outings with your fake friends
And your pomegranate martinis
Can’t even grasp
Your own hypocrisy
“Oh let me save thee”
How great you’ll feel
About yourself
Alas I’m not that kind
At least not enough
To pretend for you

Being a Fiancée

Space would be nice

A place to breathe where you will not
Be there to hear my breath
A territory to fill with my own bodily motions

This diamond ring, princess cut
Has begun to strangle my proximal phalanx
On the left side

And my dearest, though I love you
You are no prince

Sometimes I wish this jewel studded piece of metal
Would slip away in the night
So I might wake up to breathe freedom again

Though I know my bed
After all these years would be far too empty
Without you tucked here snoring
On the left side

ENCOUNTER ON THE STAIRS

Next to Children’s Hospital, in a hurry

Down the stairs, two at a time
Slowed down by a family, moving slowly
Blocking the stairway, I’m in a hurry
I stop, annoyed, I’m in a hurry

Seeing me, they move to the side
A woman says softly, “sorry” in Spanish

I look down in passing, there’s a little boy
Unsteady in gait, holding onto an arm
Head shaved, stitches in scalp
Patch over eye, thin and pale
He catches my eye and gives me a smile
My walk is slower for the rest of the day

COSMOS

“Michael took the SATs for Alex in high school using a fake ID.”



Timed pace
Scribbling hand
Lines blur and identities merge
As tests are created
For paths to be chosen
And answers
Waiting
To be found and filled.
Illuminated.

Answer keys
Zodiac constellations
Jagged and obvious once discovered
But lost upon us
As we
Venture vertical numbers
Hop horizontal letters.
Zig-zag star to star
And hope to avoid the burn of the celestial body.

Charcoal
On white paper
Hot plasma
On night sky
With deliberate attention
I construct fate
Astrologically
And fall through hoops
You put for me to fall through.
The tip of my #2
May paint our skies a darker night
Stars dimmer bright.

And holding hands, my friend
We face
Our challenges.
The platform we stand on
Fills the universe and we
Fail
to see infinity.

I'm afraid of failing feeling

The red pen traces my failings/feelings ----

A dash – a possibility for my failings/feelings

A check – another opportunity to let them win

Who sets the bar – who sets the standard?

Intelligence is not so simple, so quantifiable

To be made apparent in questions and answers

Is it ironic that we can’t feel feelings or fail failings

Maybe it’s better that we can’t fail/feel

Our lives measured by dashes – and red lines

Who really needs them to tell us our worth

To make our failings -- our feelings so real

The dashes, the lines, the checks, are not mine

But earned in superficial zeal.

Perhaps, in a different place, where scores matter little

We will finally want to --- learn to fail/feel