Poetry Collage-Spring 2008

I Wish This Joy

For Maria and John Trepp for inspiring me to push my limits, and for Professor Tolan for showing me the beauty of object poems.



I am leaping frog

I do not calculate

My step,

It comes to me

like the sun.



I am leaping frog,

I am

A sibling of the tree

Except we always chuckle

That he is adopted because of

his bark.



I am leaping frog

I rise slowly

into the shades of morning;

For me the crickets are like

people meditating

they provide me

With the tranquility

To sleep.



The sounds of night get lost

In a camouflage

Until

loud footsteps make themselves known.

I know when man

comes,

I can sense

his breath

but I am leaping frog

and truly nothing frighten me;

except the mirage that

never blinks

I spend much time hoping

He will move his eyes

In some way

That is not syncopated with mine.

When I leap I do not see him

I forget him.

When I leap I forget him.

When I leap I forget him.



There is little thought in leaping

It is when I land that I register

The texture of the surface

Below me

And although many times the texture is not new,

Each leap is original

Each leap is divine.



When I see the man coming,

I wonder does he get such joy

from each new step?

Does he get such joy?

I wish this joy for him

I wish this joy.





Unicorns and Leprecauns



In her eyes I saw the light

I saw circuits and waterfalls.

Call me a voyeur

But I saw green foot prints

On the train floor below her.



She was not

Talking about table salt

Streaming burgundy came pouring

Out of her eyes.



Something in me recalled long

Talks,

Long walks,

Ellery and I

We could count lines on the concrete

Could count

Black heart-shaped gum

With our bare feet.

Moon growing smaller

Bodies larger.



Pet cemeteries came to mind

Monochromatic skies came to mind

But these were not her concerns.



She looked blindly in my direction

A parade of unicorns and leprechauns

Followed her silhouette.



Movement & History

For Greg Miller and for the Universe, for giving me the Dance Parade



Call me up to the window pane

Stir me up

Like cake mix

Serve the sugar like rhinestones on the side

And then

lull me to sleep.



Walking along the spectrum

The clocks swirl into harmony

Vision becomes wonder

Idea becomes energy



Bird songs on the horizon

Dancing bodies on the pavement

The beat driving the engine of the soul

Maracas on the shore,

Raining on me like R.E.M sleep.





Potpourri

For L.C. for helping me heal.



My body craves your pencil

Your fingers cannot breathe

Sketch my body

Into memory

Could potpourri replace the feathers?

This box

Half empty, devours

Your eyes

do not rest

Separate spaces

We lay awake

And lonely

Uninspired

Your fingers crave

my breath.









The 6 at Midnight

For Pablo Neruda for his gifts.

Nicotine and polyester

Yale and army jackets

Dry cleaning and pre-labor day chatter

Boxes of sound and black and white laces

Corduroy and coughs

Orange smiling faces

The rhythm of mouths that imitate one another

Argyle socks and newspapers

We are all too different to be the same.



Nicotine and Argyle socks

Yale and Newspapers mouths

Black and Orange rhythm labor

white laces and labor

smiling army jackets and Pre-day polyester

Dry boxes of sound and corduroy cleaning

Coughs and chatter imitate one another

We are all too different to be the same.



Young Berries

For A. Gorelik.

All around me,

The walls are caving in

Bones crumble like dust

Termites eat through the walls of Jericho

feeding on beauty like ice cream.

When I see you my chest is heavy

Your voice inches slowly
the whole world stops in that moment
As we laugh like the young berries we once were:


Molly eats irony like apples,

Has no need

to think when she speaks,

steps on cracks in the sidewalk,

has a dog named Darby Crash.

Would ask you for a cigarette

and then listen to you tell her

all the little details of where you're from.

Molly wears clothes that are

practical and boots that leave prints

on the sidewalk like Hansel and Gretel's

bread crumbs.

Molly listens to Noise,

makes up words like "norch."

(As in "hey lady I can see your norch, pull up your pants.")

Molly has walked the globe,

picked up people and put them in her pocket.

When Molly is confused she is stuck like

a ship in a bottle,

does not cry

and is not familiar with introspection.

When we used to walk

around the city late at night

We always had everything we needed

We would connect with fifty strangers in one night.

There was no destination,

as long as we were walking toward the moon.

Molly was always detached and yet some how connected.

She'd carry little broken mirrors in her pocket and we'd

Never get cut.

She always made the words flow like water

And the laughter taste like candy

Molly had long black hair and a plump body

She was smart and she used to do kung foo…


Our eyes sparkle momentarily
And then it all dissolves into talk of wood and termites.

The walls cave in around me
as I watch your figure shrink
more and more each time I see you.

If you asked me to I would be
your jesus christ, your lord and saviour
molly I would take you anywhere
Anywhere at all…
I would take some of your pain
just so you could feel less;
I would let my bones crumble
if yours would get stronger.

I sit on the ledge of life,
feel the lines develop on my forehead
and try to remember to breathe.









Our Eyes Roam the Lanscape

For Bill j. Bean RIP



We are in perpetual transition
the motion of our bodies
lightly caressing oxygen
pushing it back and forth
into one another's lungs
our eyes roam the landscape
looking for alcoves in which to hide from exposure
When we come out, we rise
with expectations
formed from the work we have completed.
While others spend all of their time
compiling mental lists on chalkboards

Anxiety consumes in the way
fingers nails taste
leaving residue on lips
waiting to be kissed
by twilight.

Where has
the day gone?
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Pachá

For my mother, my brothers and for my father Big J, for teaching me that love is free.



Where I come from we ask

No permission to stare

Where I come from eyes

meander

like squirrels in love.

The metal rides on 4th street accept quarters

and we take our time saying hello to strangers.

When we go to the dentist we tell him:

"The stranger gave me cavities," and

He says "you're fine, don't look for problems."

Where I come from we say

"pachá" at every meal.

Where I come from the dreams

are blown like bubbles into three.

Where I come from

the summer nights blend into one

and radio waves tap into morning thoughts.



We trace thoughts with markers

onto every smooth surface

Where I dwell we like no repetition

but we embrace the circle.

Where I come from we eat

only the fresh fruit.

Where I come from night is a piñata

among tired pirates

and warriors wear watches.

Where I come from compliments

are free, magical and unremorseful

Where I come from,

we do not look for slingshots.

*pacha: (Spanish). "vivir como un pachá," to live like a king.