Foreign Constellation

I look;

The reflection in the mirror.

Somewhere in there,

I am still existing.

I still believe in things

Art. Music. Poetry. Dancing. Love.

Clean sheets. Good hair days. Shoes.

High school.

This face though..?

I don't recognize

Like I did before.

It is perception

without understanding-

It's disconnect.

I know what I'm looking at:

That's an apple, that's a tree, that's a parking lot,

That's me.

Shape of the brows,

Blue eyes,

Long nose, weak chin but

regal profile.

Mess of hair.

I know it's me..

But...

In there?

Under the twenty pounds,

Under the wide hips and roundness;

Expansive roundness.

Round shoulders

round breasts round belly

round and round

the world

round and round

spinning.

I look?

Disconnect.

And I forgive my strangeness.

I forgive the stranger in the mirror.

Anyway,

I try.

What was and what is-

How does one make the points touch?

Like stars in a foreign constellation

Or my thighs.

I use to know

these dots

Freckles and eyelashes.

Spots of toothpaste.

Before and

After.

I look.

After,

I see.

I understand that I do not.

These dots- that touch like strangers at a carnival-

Shoulder to shoulder but isolated 

somehow 

ignorant on purpose?

I look.

I see.

Same eyes.

Different context.

Spinning, touching, round and

Disconnected. Forgiving 

strange skies-

I am still in here?

Somewhere.

Making all the stars touch.

Bridging the round and the gap and the unfamiliar spin.

New gravity.

Blue eyes.

Music. Poetry. Love.

I still believe.

This is a tree.. This is a parking lot...

That is a Joni Mitchell song and

There I am..!

And gone again; A flash of shadow down an alley I think I remember,

Quiet.

I keep looking.

Requiescat In Pace / Releve d'Identite / This Too Shall Pass (hymn to the leftovers)

She wore a cameo in her hair,
and mourned her unborn baby on a Wednesday.
Knee deep in concrete, she wished she could play the piano.

Wistful of hand prints on the wall; I leveled
Fist full of smeared reflections- in the glass, rainwater
in the coffee, petri-dish turned ashtray... Evolution.

Warbled out another note, singing-

"I saw. 
You haven't written anything in a while.
I've been playing Tom,
On the stereo and standing in the closet. 
Dreaming.
My hearts afraid of taking 
chances. I still remember 
Your hands around my waist.
Hope the crops come up... 
healthy 
this harvest. 
Wishing you well. 
-L."

Same old song and chicken scratch.

Whispers called her heart a graveyard.
Rumors said, "Cemetery." 
She said, "Well,whatever, it's where my lost are dead and buried." 

And dashed out in her ribbons, fraying, to the old church yard 
for praying psalms over those cold love letters
Inked up in red: "Return to Sender"

Train Tracks and Other Metaphores

This is a poem for my generation

written on a Monday at the office,

while I Facebook and YouTube

instead of filing and data entry.

Because I'm trying to peer over the wall of time

and spy on a life I had once, where we all went to high school together

and cut classes in favor of the beach and the woods

and driving around in your parents convertible without their permission.

And in the dark of the night my footsteps make no noise,

and the cars on the high way are a river of fire. 

I am followed by my street light shadow,

these are train tracks and other metaphors.

Where are we? We wonder out loud,

to each other, and to ourselves, and to no one in particular...

Who have we become, and who did we want to be?

And did we lay our plans with as much care as we should have?

Probably not. But there's no time now to,

Lament some of my moments of execution..

Where I lost my grace, and fell out of they eyes of honesty,

and struck out.

And in the dark night my footsteps make no noise,

and the road to anywhere is paved with dreams.

I am followed by my street light shadow,

these are train tracks and other metaphors.

We are treading water somewhere between the shores of Child

and the rocky horizon of Adult.

We are piled into rowboats, some of us with children,

some of us with men, and some of us without..

We are filled with wanting and painted in covetous technicolors-

We dare to dream the American Dream that our parents dreamed

and distilled from their parents who dreamed and distilled it from

their parents, and now it holds just a drop if it's original elixir, but we dream on.

And in the dark of my dreams my footsteps make no noise,

and the yellow brick road rolls out a red carpet.

I am followed by my street light shadow,

these are train tracks and other metaphors.

I want to live in a big house with a porch

and a yard for my garden and animals and children,

and a barn so I can hang my half moon out on the eaves

and wind chimes from the rafters.

Maybe I will have some chickens,

and a goat, or a pig...

And I'll make pottery and beaded necklaces

in between pulling weeds and putting on plays with the neighborhood kids.

And in the dark before the dawn my footsteps make no noise,

and the path we walk is unmarked and winding.

I am followed by my street light shadow,

these are train tracks and other metaphors.

I have to write this down because I FORGET MYSELF (all the time....)

and then go throwing blame at every one around me.

Telling them they don't know who I am,

when really it's me, making a false idol of myself.

And at least we are all lost together,

you and me, and all of us, in our rowboats,

between here and the future, 

still updating on Facebook, to validate our existence.

And in the light of day my footsteps make no noise,

and the faces of strangers are all familiar to me.

I am followed by my street light shadow,

these are train tracks and other metaphors.

A Man and a Woman on the Street

I liked the way he looked at her
Tender, sweet.
Anybody would have bet he was a beast beneath his work clothes.
Dark like Africa and tall.
A head full of dreads.

I liked the way he looked at her,
Tender, kind.
Even though she was short and skinny
with uneven freckles and a frizzy tangle of curls,
hiding away under her bohemian fabrics.

I liked the way he looked at her.
Tender, gentle.
Hands in his pockets, maybe he was undressing her with his eyes..
It didnt look that way to me,
but I was just a passer by.

A man and a woman on the street.
I liked the way he looked at her.
Tender, sweet.

The Trend of Living

Doesn't matter where you go, or who you're there with.

You set up shop in one place long enough, you notice the pattern.

The Trend of Living. 

We're all out with our battalions on Friday night,

spending our pennies, buying back freedom, drinking salvation, 

Stumbling home on our trail of bread crumbs.

 

We hate our jobs. We dream of bigger and better with an order of babies on the side.

We dream of weddings and runaway brides

and beaches, and far away islands.

We crave a kickback vacation, 

a do-nothing escape from our daily hum drum

Something more exotic than grocery shopping and lawn mowing and paycheck collecting

Far away, I am somewhere else, 

doing exactly the same thing.

Peering over the rim of my coffee cup into the distant future, where I am rich and tan and lazy.

From across my day dream, 

I'm pretty sure I can see you in the distance, 

Far away, somewhere else, doing exactly the same thing.

Uptown; This Time Last Year

To Harlem, With Love-

This time last year,
Uptown,
I had an apartment that was small and
didn't really belong to me and
I loved it.




Walking across the Madison Avenue Bridge
in the New York City Summer Heat,

Listening to the thunderstorms roll up the island.

Stealing wireless from out of thin air to fuel the
beginnings of my Pandora love-affair,
running from rehearsal to rehearsal to rehearsal and
working 3 days a week.

We rode the bus one morning,

hungover and in matching ensembles

with my dog in a bag,

and thanked God for Greek diners.

You left your shoes in the middle of my floor

and your reflection in my mirror.

Now, back on the tree-lined streets of Suburbia,

I miss the sunlight on the East River.

I miss Kennedy's Fried Chicken at 2 am, 

and the obnoxious smell of burnt death 

escaping from the apartment across the hall.

New York.

You Know.

I Need You.

Dún Chathail

Ten years ago
I was in a real Irish Pub
that was in a real Irish town
that was really in Ireland.

I had real Irish friends,
who played real Irish music
and sang real Irish songs
and drank real Irish pints.

We hung out in real Irish pubs
We danced in real Irish discos
and told real Irish ghost stories at real Irish Forts,
and walked boldly off real Irish cliffsides...

Sláinte.

Destiny & Other Fates

“Destiny

des-ti-ny; noun
1. something to which a person or thing is destined; fortune
2. a predetermined course of events often held to be an irresistible power or agency

synonyms see fate.

Fate- 2 entries found.
1. fate; noun
2. fate; transitive verb

1) the will or principle or determining cause by which things in general are believed to come to be as they are or events to happen as they do
2a) an inevitable and often adverse outcome, condition, or end;
2b) disaster-especially death
3a) final outcome
3b) the expected result of normal development.
3c) the circumstances that befall someone or something
4) plural capitalized- the three goddesses who determine the course of human life in classical mythology.

synonyms fate, destiny, lot, portion, doom mean a predetermined state or end.
Fate implies an inevitable and usually an adverse outcome
Destiny implies something foreordained and often suggests a great or noble course or end.”.

WE DREAM OF FLYING (ICARUS)

So many of us, even I,
Even I, who have spent my life up in the air.
I dream of flying.

Last night I fell asleep and dreamed that
I fell asleep dreaming overnight I had grown wings
and in the morning I woke up and flew away.

At first, they were like butterfly wings
all light and air,
but as I dreamed, I thought,
Those wings will never hold me.

So instead I dreampt of
Black bird wings.
Big, glorious, Raven feathers
sprouting from that sexy spot between my shoulders,
Strong enough to carry me off...

Last night I dreampt-
I stepped off my roof and flew away
into the blue bird skies
on big black wings and
never looked back.

Umbrellaphobia

"Hey Baby-" I said, 

"It's one of those wet winter Tuesdays in New York,

where your converse get soaked and you pass out on the subway and people vanish from Facebook 

and you don't even notice right away.."

What?

"Bundle up and stay dry," I told her, 

"I love you."

Then she asked me to weekend mad hatter tea parties

and I told her to kiss you once for me but 

not to tell you.

And I played peer editor and read her desires for a college experience that eluded most of us

but didn't rain on her parade. 

Because it's hard, on Tuesdays like these, 

to know which way you're walking or where you're going,

Or where you came from?

Something about the wet and the rain and all those

Black, bloody, umbrellas out there,
threatening eye balls across the boroughs.

You know there's no name for an irrational fear of umbrellas?

I'm settled on umbrellaphobia, but trust me, that's not it.

No, that's not it.

Then she asks me why I'm passing out on subways,

I tell her it's not me, it's you, I just talk about it.

What?

"Bundle up and stay dry," she tells me, 

"I love you."