The dust of the Gowanus
is on my lips
today was beautiful
we walked there an hour
the trees were so bare
the sky was so blue
the sun was so low
in the middle of March
The dust of the Gowanus
was on our lips
as we explored the empty bus yard
of ghost buses with no passengers
and the brawny rust-stained shoulders
of the industrial canal
and the hip reliquary
of Proteus Gowanus
a shrunken-head kind of place
with folksy macramé hangings
cast-off books, skulls, gloves, pocket watches
The dust of the Gowanus
is on your lips
they speak truths
of my life and yours
the tchotchke-filled journey
we’ve hand-knit together
these 10 years
There might be freezing irony in the open
window like it was
it is spring.
But in the background
-in this picture -
the old crone of a tree,
spreadeagle in the alley way,
Oh, if the windows might be open,
then enter the dream.
should be something seedy
and this is 43,
in the middle of the war
between droning skies
and the clouds.
No planes falling,
no one in a daze in the garden,
then at 45 degrees,
a nose, cold and runny.
Are you awake?
The healing has occurred in a dusty room where
Your former life disappears into lines drawn by someone unknown.
Through a window you hear the brief, shrill notes of birds above the sounds of
Car engines and your attention wanders to the past.
What did you not know then that might have changed how things turned out?
In a nearby theater, others stare at projections on a screen.
The wet membranes of their eyes shimmer with colored lights
As the unclaimed ghost travels between the time of them and space of you.
The sensation left you wanting something unknown while the feeling of grit inside your clothes evoked a recurring need for derelict experience.
Snow filled the sill.
An endlessness of minutes accumulated in the dishpan and meanwhile the spelunking failure of taste
And now you are lost and the only way home is through him
the one you cannot trust entirely
though you do care and care completely
Need is something you have learned to live around.
Once you got the knack it seemed so easy and yet before there was only continuous exposure of membranes unused to light.
the drift of profanity
the draught of carbonated deity
electronic reach exceeding industrial grasp
ecstasy attained and occurred
Just as a bitter memory is dislodged from her heart, the train arrives in the station.
The morning is a siren gone dead from overuse.
Snow has fallen and now covers the tar rooftops.
Daylight shines through the broken blinds.
His face is a child’s drawing made only with circles.
In the steel support rust forms the shape of a kidney.
A jagged pattern weaves through his neurons.
She has a compulsion to sacrifice.
The night is a nod and a sneeze.
title is from Much Ado About Nothing
the sky was anaerobic
clouds looked like they had
to be part of that blue
where so high up
it could freeze a piano
5000 feet below
was hardly breathing.
the dull ice
as if homeless
part of a beer commercial
in another life?
part of a rotting bone
part of a car wheel
leaving its perfume
in the din drone.
so you didn’t have the perfect life
so you have fans from alakska
so you are perfectly dangerous and entertaining
miles to go before i sleep
miles to go
Why does the angel, her wings askew, lie crumpled in the corner? Dismay appears on Giuliana’s face through the glass darkened by night. Outside, a passerby raises his hand as a shield against the falling snow which stings his cheeks, blinds him. He pauses on the sidewalk just beyond her window. Neither is aware of the other despite their proximity yet their thoughts are a matching shade of hope. They have seen hard times and overcome, and today they understand the gravity of their next act. The lamp is lit, darkness deepens.
snow lingers twirling mid-air as it falls from a pale complected sky
a former dream remembered
quickening steps, the future awaits
i wasnt in the mood for going out into the street. room temperature having a lot to do with it since it was freezing outside and more snow was coming. i had to get home soon. but trains would be less frequent and that would mean waiting, waiting for a train with my fingers biting into themselves just to create friction and then the orange light pouring over the sprinkles of ice dust which were getting in my eyes.
the moment i climbed the stairs, the ancient stairway held together with thick slabs of steel, which would freeze a brown rat’s scalp scurrying past and which made every sound possible at midnight despite the pain i put into being as quiet as possible.
trains always take their time at this hour and just when you are there on high enjoying the silence, wondering how solitude was possible in this kind of megalopolis, the people would rise from the dead, like rats, on their way to work.
on the wall encaustic paintings contain separate fevers
and hang like untasted fruit
Sunday is a widening curve
the membrane bends in silence
as memories cascade
rain has been selected to distill this mood
while fire is meant to release the spirit
inhale the transporting smoke, exhale a vacating mind
there is little in this world that is meant to keep
but the sound of machines still fill the air
and the clouded sky never ends