Taking care of business

Had a crazy seven days with ridiculous emotional swings caused by getting some really good and really bad news in close proximity, several times. I'm pretty even keel normally (although all my girlfriends have claimed I was the moodiest man they'd ever met) so these kinds of swings are way out of the ordinary for me. Whatever, I'm still here, still grinding poker, still scribbling lines of poetry. One of the swings involved my heart getting dropped like a porcelain plate onto a marble floor several stories below. Fun times, fun times. I know what you're thinking, more grist for the mill. Except I'd sworn off writing broken hearted love poems (stupid poet, should've sworn off getting my heart broke), so I'm not writing about this, I've been there and done that, as I'm sure most poets have. I know it's really bad form to pass up some excellent inspiration during National Poetry Month, but whatever. Instead I'm gonna post a revision of a poem that was just an exercise when I wrote it, but now rings pretty true. The details are all fiction, the emotional details are all fact. One thing I will say, I learned so much about myself and dealing with women during this last three years (and got some really good poems) that I almost, almost, (almost) feel like I owe this woman money. Dealing with her forced me to confront some lifelong issues I've had in relationships and work on them. And believe me I was working, like a Jamaican with six jobs working, but in the end I just had too far to go, too much to learn, too much to try to master. But it's been mad beneficial for me, changed my life so much for the better going forward. Anyway, the education was invaluable (thanks Miss Prissy), but there's still the problem of all that shattered china on the floor. So here's the poem (which is connected to her in a tangential poet way), enjoy.

LONNIE’S LAMENT

floods the room,
on a flash of moonlight,
the interrogative of night rising.
He feels taut strings plucked
by hands soft enough
to wreck religion,
hears sharps and flats,
the alternate fingerings
of her signature,
feels indigo ventricles
improvise emotions
they can't contain.
Sees the saucy hips,
the twin legends
of her legs,
that cryptic tattoo
the tresses braiding rumor
and myth. Sees
how she pimped mystique
into solo and chorus
inside a blouse.
Her skirt flashes through his past
like Billie's final sigh
inflating hopeful lungs
in a haunted torso.
He hears her halo
tilt to kiss the curve
of the ear, chords born
from the marriage
of catfish and cornmeal,
from lacquered brass
and that last goodbye.
He checks her thick thighs,
how they resolve into
an ankle's passion
for expensive bracelets
and the foot's five types of finesse;
the sweet tonic of each toe.
The daughter of possibility
and pain, an onyx angel
skips like a rock across
his river, conjuring
the holiness of dragonflies.
Only he knows the nickname
hidden like a curse word
under her scarlet tongue.
How can he forget those lips
whose low moan caressed
his neck all night,
when their prints
burn bright
as Bourbon

on his throat?

EXTRA BONUS

EXTRA, EXTRA BONUS (for Maxwell or Sade fans)

Not just another poem about unrequited desire

THE MARILYN IN YOU

The sun lays
like an orange lozenge
at the back of the ocean's throat,
as these two girls
huddle, snack and giggle
across from you
on a nearly empty bus,
as the driver wends
his large wheels
across this sandy island,
you too can imagine
what that almost woman
on the corner by the 7-11
in his tight dress,
lacefront blonde wig
and too large feet
hungers for;
not to be eyed
like the last fried wing
in the bottom
of the bucket,
but to be held
in the mouth
like a chocolate truffle
freed from
its tightly folded
foil.

NaPoMo 30 Haiku/Senryu

Well, it's that time again folks. National Poetry Month. And like the last couple of years I'll be trying to average a haiku/ senryu a day for the month. On my Facebook page I'll be posting a haiku/ senryu a day also, but they won't be mine, they'll be some of my favorites and will have some points of discussion/ criticism as well. The first ku is a shout out to a poet friend as well. I'll keep updating this until I have at least 30.

Morning sun-
a single Lemonhead
on my tongue

Spring rain
Falling on the roof
falling off of it

Aint no sunshine
hope she'll be happier-
Spring day withers

as she approaches-
peeking at my hole cards
then folding

Moonless night-
Tonguing where front teeth
once were

Starbucks
Grande Earl Grey-
beard grayer

Ocean breeze-
the side of my tongue
salty snack

filling the beach
in the shadow of the crane-
seagulls

Across the beach
Bulldozers moving sand dunes -
Ocean waves them back

boy dozes on towel-
bobbing in the summer surf
another buoy

Filling
the ducts of Trayvon's eyes-
Spring downpour.

Ebony sky
full and shining above-
her lips

April drizzle-
folding a poem into
a small hat

Spring Equinox-
my glass half full of
sunshine

April morning-
spooning hot oatmeal
off my pants

April sunrise-
my finger in the cleft of
her peach

April sunset-
Roof of the Lorraine Motel
too red

Drooping power line-
below a crow's clenched claws
Nikes swaying

Slight drizzle-
an alleyrat lapping
an eggshell

Gunshot-
the power line
swaying

Pretending not
to notice her hand in his-
waning moon

In the mirror
practicing an evil eye-
full moon

Glint of sun
on the sandy beach-
her eyes

woman's giggle-
surf surging across
April shore

shoreline curving
out of the morning mist-
Melinda's mouth

The following poems aren't haiku, but were originally 5-7-5 poems that I thought were haiku when I first started. These are revisions, so some of them now have less than 17 syllables;

Stars are tiny eyes
waiting on a womb
to open

Her almonds
my sharpest glances cannot
crack

A wise man builds
the walls of a house from stones
thrown at him

flicking his wrist
the DJ rocks and wrecks shop
heads bob like Marley

Trey For Trayvon

Rain
from the edge of my hoodie-
Spring morning

Face down
in tamped young grass-
scattered Skittles.

Gunshot echoes-
The gurgling from
a fallen can

TRAYVON

TRAYVON

is a story of steam,
rising like
a swarm of hornets,
singing sight from eyes.
a parable of lava
moldering down a mountain
igniting all green to ash,
is the song of a hit recorded,
number 1 with a bullet.

Is not a story
about "fucking coons"
that "always get away".

Is not a poem
about Emmit Till,
Amadou Diallo,
or James Byrd Jr.

It is not the tale of
a "suspicious" hoodie
in the wrong neighborhood
or a trigger finger with
a "squeaky clean record".
Is not a fable of a corpse
with a bullet hole
that was tested for drugs
and a hand freshly coated
with the back flash of phosphorus
that was not.
This is a story
that checks out,
so the only charges
will be on a credit card
for funeral services.

I did not write this poem
in anger,
I did not write this poem
in "Self-Defense".
I did not write this poem.
Because my pen is empty
From having written & written this poem.

These words exist
only because
while facedown
on the concrete
of the righthand lane
at 10:37 AM
on April 15th, 1987
at 19067 Greenbelt Road
my name was not Gregory Habib,
my sternum
could stand the weight
of the knee between
my shoulder blades,
and the monomaniacal eye
at the back of my head
was a .38 revolver
with a 15 lb. trigger pull
and not the 8 lb pull
of a Glock 9mm.
Because it was all just

a misunderstanding
and have a nice day, Sir.

It is not true that
my eyes are red
as a bag of Skittles
as I write this,
and if my page is dotted
with drops, it is only
Arizona iced tea that is spilled.

This poem pertains to no crime,
contains no trees
with branches strong enough
to bear the weight of a black boy,
contains no rope (of any length),
contains not even a single slipknot.

But it does loop;
like a wandering moose,
a homeward goose,
or a four hundred year old
ruse.

Almost Spring

First real writing in a while, it's just a revision, but I'll take it. This poem is pretty close to being able to leave the house on its own.

HOW MY TONGUE GOT SPLIT

I have always loved

to say 'acetaminophen.'

A wizened woman

once said

that some words

though light,

are almost Almighty

in the mouth.

Can be held

on the tongue

like a nib of licorice.

Other words

are roots

that can be chewed

for medicinal value.

They dampen

the tongue darkly.

Some praise

the blood pressure,

fatigue even

the mighty muscle

of the heart.

Like 'acetaminophen,'

some cause blood

to flow.

Your name is also a word

in a language

I cannot yet speak,

a yearning

on my tongue.

Some say Desire

is almost almighty.

This word is

habit forming.

I lick its aftertaste

from my stained lips.

A rare sweet root,

it can be added

to certain sentences

to mask bitterness.

The pharmacist says

boiled into an extract,

it could alleviate

even the barking cough

of the lonely.

If a name rhymes

with acetaminophen;

will it relax

the hard muscle

of this heart,

or spur

hemorrhage?

Uncertain syllables

spill from my mouth,

cloak me

in a robe

like a monk

kneeling

in the dark cave

of a heart,

chanting

a naked name

until light.

RIP Etta

'Tell Mama'

'All I Could Do was Cry'

'At Last'

April in Paris (with Nicole)

Had this poem in different versions for a while now. I think this might be what I was looking for.

ON A CLEAR DAY

Let's stop pretending we understand jazz"
Nicole Blackman

Let's start charting, (We understand Pi.)
let's taste, a budding knowledge of tongues
let's sign, waving we aim to grasp tangents,
Let's strip, opening we learn clothes.

Let's steam, reddening we reach the Blues,
let's hope humming, we ruby-eye Bird,
let's scale, mapping we study under Miles,
let's train, loving we hear supremes.

Let's tongue, kissing, we learn to feel heat.
Let's sweat, dripping we imitate drums,
Let's loop, to prove we apprehend knot,
Let's not. Being we vanish into Bop.

Another day, another powdered doughnut.

Poem off Three Rails
(For the Cat in the corner pocket with the cool hat)

The favorite stick long, unpolished
The balls in their triangular pen
waiting to be broken like horses,
Verses wish their stolid stanzas
were dominated like headlines by breaking news
Such exquisite milk in her mother's bowls
Ivory as piano keys, or a cued ball
It was the curve of the strike that almost eluded him
Not a match, but her eyelids flickering
The music began to swell like a muscle
Her other mouth immediately moist
The last stanza written in different states,
Because of neutered styles, not united.

Cesaria gone-

Now even Morna itself

knows Sodade

Cesaria Evora singing 'Sodade'

GAMBLERS ANONYMOUS

This is not about a man
enchanted in front
of a slot machine.
This is not about
the eyebrows of people
seated or standing about.
This is not about
the balance of a woman,
dipping at the knees
to serve a drink.
This is about
the darkness of chocolate.
This is not about spinning reels,
tinkling bells or
messages encoded 

in flashing lights.
This not about
the party streamers
of her hair,
how much grace inflates
the life rafts of her lips
or what taunts
in the ringing tone
of her skin.
No, this is simply
about the darkness of chocolate.
About what could
Make it liquid
Between the lips.
This not about a woman
walking past and checking
to see if he's watching.
This isn't even about
which confection he
purchases
as he swipes his card
in the register of longing.
This is not
about a bar.
This is about
the darkness of chocolate.
About how it melts
and who it runs.
This isn't about
the arrowing of eyes
if he doesn't speak or
the mariachi band of
laughter from lips
when he does.
This is not about a man
dreaming of her eyes
lining up on a reel,
not about
a progressive jackpot.
This is about
the darkness of chocolate.
This is about
what gets
wagered on
the tip of a tongue,
what gets
misplaced in a bet,
about what forever
moistens the mouth
on the slow cab ride
from the airport
of possibility
to the center of
the city of sighs.

Bartender, rim shot please

ATLANTIC CITY

You have the most beautiful and sincere
fake smile I've ever seen

Several times you've almost sold me a ticket
to whirl on its white Ferris wheel

Whether you know it or not, you deserve to be loved
like Salt water taffy on the tongue of a two year old

You are the most scintillating thing on Absecon Island
so sexy that I almost forgive you for not having a bookstore

at night, the sight of you snatches the air from my lungs
like Funnel cake from the hand of a foreign tourist

I've been enchanted by you at least as long
as the last roulette wheel has been spinning

the dunes on your beaches are impressive
even though I know all the sand is silicone

every morning I wonder if ordering free drinks until I pass out
isn't the same as betting it all on black

Still, I imagine your hand curled in mine
like a lifeguard dozing in a shaded chair

your history haunts, relentless
as the voice of a beggar on the Boardwalk

I'd bet my top hat that I could never be bored
with your monopoly on the streets of my heart

during hurricane Irene, while we were apart
I missed you like the last bus to Brigantine

I've ignored prettier cities than you
but none that so stupidly stops my needle on North

every night I pray to be the last chip you cash in
before the moon comes on like an empty fuel light.

More revisions

So lately I've just been revisiting stuff that I felt wasn't quite finished. And for me the White Whale of my work has been the poem "Infinitude of Kisses". The concept was to take a very elegant mathematical proof and use its language as a poem. I really felt like the idea (if pulled off) could be brilliant, maybe even career defining stuff. I got lucky because my first draft got published in Ploughshares, but I didn't like that draft very much and felt it was ultimately unsuccessful at achieving my goal of having the poem parallel the proof's logic. I worked on it and thought I was getting closer and then a few days ago made some more small changes that helped incrementally. I wasn't certain that I grasped the proof well enough to mirror it conceptually. And of course there's the question of how much 'poetic license' I should allow myself. But then I found myself sitting in a 2/5 NL poker game with another player Wayne Lewis who I know has a Ph.D in math and so I decided to ask him a question about a simile in the Al Khwarizmi poem that had been bothering me in terms of its conceptual fidelity. And he confirmed that the line should be changed, so that was good, and then I decided to mention the "Infinitude" poem. Now, I almost never talk about poetry at the poker table if for no other reason than there's almost never anyone to talk about it with. There's a few folk I talk about books or literature with and I very much dig those conversations, but they're usually about fiction. But it's not everyday that you get to talk to someone whose an expert in the field you're referring to. So, I brought it up and ended up actually showing him the poem, since the problem I was having couldn't really be conceptualized without reading the piece. Anyway, he dug what I was trying to do, but wasn't sure I was there. I suggested changing the title and he agreed and said my new title would help because "it would define what the poem was about." It's amazing how such a simple phrase could make such a huge difference. After changing the title several times I came to realize that the problem wasn't with the title, but rather with the fact that the poem itself, which is allegedly a proof, doesn't contain that act of definition. And of course all proofs do. So I changed one line, and BAM! there it was, the whole enchilada; salsa, sour cream, guacamole and all. I revised line 9 to read "where L(f, s)=Love of a Father and Son" which I think sets up everything the poem is trying to do, including demonstrating in a clear manner the way I'm trying to use the variables in the equations. I was worried about all this grand complicated conceptual stuff and the whole problem was actually so simple all along.

ON THE INFINITUDE OF KISSES
(for Little Joel)

Let us define a topology
on the emotion L
by imagining a sub-love L1
to be an open love
if and only if
it either contains
open kisses or it contains

a union of physical sequences
L(f, s),
where L(f, s)=Love of a Father and Son.
In other words,
L1 is open if and only if
every hesitant male heart
that is a member of L1
admits some non-hero condition F or S.
The axioms for a topology
are easily verified:
by definition,
an open mouth kiss is open;
L is just the sequence L(U, I),
and (if true) is open as well.
For any collection of open mouths
the intersection of two
(and hence finitely many)
open mouths is an open kiss:
Let the lips U and I
form open mouths,
then, let the mouths meet.
The topology is quite different
from the usual Cupidean one,
and has two notable properties:
Since any open mouth
can receive infinite kisses,
no finite mouth can be open;
put another way,
the complement of an open kiss
cannot be a closed mouth.
The basic mouths {father, son}
are closed by nature,
but we can imagine L(f, s)
as the complement
of an open mouth as follows:
"There are many kinds of open
how a diamond comes into a knot of flame
how sound comes into a word . . .
. . . Love is a word, another kind of open."
Among the sounds
that are emotional multiples
of open kisses
is rain falling on a field,
i.e. [a topology of touch]
By the first property,
the mouth (raining sky)
cannot be closed.
On the other hand,
by the second property,
the mouth (fallow field) is closed.
So, if there were only
finitely many drops of rain
then the mouths (field, sky)
would be in a finite union
of closed mouths,
and hence closed.
This would be
a contradiction,
thus L(f, s) must contain
infinitely many
kisses falling
on an open mouth.

Revisions, revisions.

Made some changes and it feels much closer to finished.

THE AL KHWARIZMI IN YOU

Wonders if

there's an algebra

for all of it:

for the moon's curvature

as a midnight calculus,

for how the windmills

behind the casino

turn their giant Xs

into late night whys,

for how the tide

rises with an

asymptotic longing.

Even for the arc

of a brand new

table tennis paddle

that your sweaty hand

now grips

or the velocity of the balls

(larger than they've

ever been)

spinning across the net

between your namesake

and your imagination.

Where he,

still a baby

burps and sighs

asleep in a crib.

The trajectory

seeming derivative,

almost always

of the desire.

Two Greek letters

on different sides

of an equation,

each ciphering

the other,

each signifying

an absence

by their italicised presence.

Daddy, Daddy,

don't you know

I miss you,

his sigh says.

He rests his head

on the hollow

of your chest.

Asks when

are you coming back?

A gulf

with no echoes.

As he whispered

to you once,

his lips are

an empty set now.

Two brackets

attempting an embrace

because kisses,

however long ago,

count and multiply

in the abacus of memory.

Is there an algebra

for all of it?

What you've

done with the days

since you left,

what you tried to do,

or might have tried,

had you correctly

solved for all the variables,

if you had

a slope to graph,

a slide to rule them.

If the days didn't

dance to their

own algorithm.

Is there an algebra

for all of it,

the floating

function of the seagulls,

the breaking

but unbroken waves,

the ghostly geometry

of the foam's fathering?

For how two pairs

of footprints,

now non-linear,

could solve

all the sand

drifting

between them?

October Haiku/Senryu

Black walnuts knock

then roll off the roof-

Autumn

Mid song
the violinist bows out-
All Blues

Snowstorm

ass frozen in place

Ears flicking flakes.

For John on his birthday

In 1961 John Coltrane and his band played the Newport Jazz Festival and premiered 'My Favorite Things' a tune from a then popular Broadway musical. Most people nowadays know the song from the movie 'The Sound of Music' but that was still years in the future. Trane was only the second group to cover the tune and his version was a smash hit. So I'm posting this poem as a tribute. I have a couple or three Trane poems, but this is my favorite. When you finish the poem, read the first word of each line going down.

THE IDEA OF IMPROVISATION AT NEWPORT (1961)

Bangles on bronzed arms and daisies on dresses,
Lipstick that lingers and long sassy tresses,
Phone calls on Fridays and jingles that sing,
Lightning that hints at what evening might bring.

Raindrops like fingers drum
On the windshield of the car,
Roses lovely up an empty seat
And await your smile, white as
Whiskers curling
On an elderly chin. Curious as
Kittens, they anticipate your
Bright eyes, mint
Copper pennies, two
Kettles of complexity
And what could be
Warm as your hands? Not knitted
Woolen scarves, or those red
Mittens you lost last winter. Long
Brown legs, where are you?
Paper bag brown, twin slender
Packages of satin. Are you
Tied up on the phone or caught
Up in a meeting
With a client like
String knotted into fishnet?
These questions vex,
Are six white roses sufficient?
A light drizzle, a
Few wayward splashes
Of memory caress my hand,
My fingers think of your
Favorite spot to be touched, imagine
Things they'll soon coax you to say.

Cranberry candles and cognac in crystal,
Flannel pajamas and tongue tips that tickle,
Sweet tea from tumblers in long soothing swigs,
Feed me dark chocolate with raisins and figs.

Slice by slice, truth bleeds:
but an open heart
is not a fatal wound.
To be kissed goodnight,
or dismissed outright,
not because they sound the same,
but because they both smack.
Your lips somehow no
less full when they lie
as when they curl to smile.
The diets supposedly strict there.
Everywhere a weighing,
no meals but imagined ones.
Look how Pity deceives-
somehow a thing that seeks to soothe
and a type of strangling.

September Haiku / Senryu 30 / 30

Her lip prints
fill the rim of this
empty glass

AC Air Show-
these seagulls startled by
Birds of Thunder

Moonlight nibbles
the dark chocolate bar
of her body

Entangled in
the curling strands of her hair-
My eyes

Breakthrough?

I have wanted for many years to write poems in Kriolu, but felt like my Kriolu wasn't good enough. It wasn't (TBH) because you really have to have a great grasp of a language to write poetry in it. I haven't spoken Kriolu on a daily basis in 20 years, so my grasp of it is slipping. But I decided that maybe if I just started to write some poems anyway, that will force me to learn the language better, maybe even well enough to eventually write some decent poems. My poem 'MORNA' was translated into Kriolu, but other than that all my Cape Verdean poems are in English, although many of them contain Kriolu words. This is my first attempt, it based on Dumas' 'Love Song', but isn't a translation, more like an adaptation. I'll put up an English translation at some point, but there's no real way to translate some the cultural impact of some of the imagery. Lines like "Jan sabe pa mode ca ta txuba / o ceu ja txora tud lagrimas hora ki bu bai," (I know why it doesn't rain, the sky cried all its tears when you left) means a great deal more in a country that averages 2 inches of rain a year and has more citizens that live out of the country, than in it. Not to mention the implication that the sky has Sodade, a term that means a kind of longing / nostalgia/ unrequited desire that has no real English equivalent. The title is from a famous Cape Verdean song by Tito Paris.


DANÇA MA MI KRIOLA
(After Henry Dumas)

Cretxeu,
N ten ki gráma kes dés ilhas,
o bentu leste debe ki obi bu vós
el ta canta e sibia sima bo,
a terra debe ki odja bu cara
el ten kor sima bo peli,
txintxorote ta canta bu nome
hora ki bo ta passa,
Jan sabe pa mode ca ta txuba
o ceu ja txora tud lagrimas hora ki bu bai,
Jan sabe pa mode o vulcao ten fogo tud noite
Si kurason ta kema sin bo,
Tudu dia a mar ta tenta
faze karakols sima bu cabelu,
N ten ki gosta kel spedju di kes dés ilhas,
ja bo inxina’l bem
mode ki ten sodade.

John Legend / Sade Concert (updated)

John Legend is in Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles type territory. Didn't miss a note, voice has mad colors and timbres and the piano is an extension of his body. I knew he was talented, but not like that. His pitch control was perfect as was his breath control, his singing technique is flawless even though he uses every Gospel/Blues/R+B lick ever known. He hits notes that sound like they are razorblading his throat, but there is no hoarseness whatsoever afterwards. The musicianship of his band (which included a three piece horn section) was very impressive. And SADE? What? The show is so elegantly designed that even a sartorial retard like me noticed. The idea is to replicate a Film Noir look and feel for the show. This is done by a careful choice of colors that are seen on stage. Noir is generally fimed in black and white and the clothes worn by all the performers in Sade's band reflect this with everyone wearing black, white or some shade of gray. The only exceptions to this are Sade's red lipstick, a red bra she wears under a white gown (3rd costume change) and the red dress she wears for the Encore. Upon reflection I'm impressed at the lengths Sade went to get that austere look. All of the equipment on the stage is either black, white or chrome. Everything looked to be new and shiny and there were no wires, cables or cords visible, no amps, monitors or equipment trunks onstage, no sheet music, charts or music stands, no additional instruments, no food or even water bottles on stage. The stage was completely uncluttered, if musicians weren't playing during a song then they weren't on the stage. When Stuart Matthewman wanted to change guitars for a song, he would go to the side of the stage and get the new axe from a stagehand and hand him the other one. This level of detail could have only happened with a deep commitment by the star, so it's clear that Sade wanted to imprint her personal sense of style on the way everything about the show looked. And is it me or is Lauren Bacall a role model for Sade's sense of style? During every song video and still images were projected on a giant back screen, most of the videos appeared to have been made just for this tour and several of them showed her wearing her hair down with no makeup and in these her freckles were very visible, something she rarely allows. There were 4 costume changes and in every case the stage design and decorations coordinated perfectly with the clothing worn by the band. The band (two guitar players and an electric bass, with a trap set drummer and a percussionist, a piano/keyboard player and two male backup singers) was tighter than Aretha Franklin's skinny jeans, reminding everyone that Sade is a band, not just a person. The show opened with Soldier of Love, a tune that was greatly helped by the fact that the drummer played the groove live (as opposed to the sample used in the recording), make no mistake though, this show uses samples too, for example on tracks where the original recording uses Sade's voice for background vocals and for the orchestral intros that several songs opened with. The concert closed with No Ordinary Love, and Cherish the Day was the encore. The encore also featured a costume change for the entire band with her coming out in a stunning red dress. After the first song, the set list alternated older material with songs from the Soldier of Love album and her latest releases from The Ultimate Collection. Your Love is King was the second song and Sade had some minor pitch problems at the end of a few extended notes which sounded like they were due to improper breath control. She may have been out of breath still from all the dancing she did during Soldier of Love. After the newer songs were done, they did three or four older tunes in a row beginning with Smooth Operator. Any lingering questions I might have had about her musicianship as a singer were answered by her performance of Jezebel. She sat on the side of the stage and with minimal accompaniment (stand up bass, piano, guitar and sax) absolutely crushed the song. Later in the show Pearls was done solo over a track to allow the band a break and a costume change, the stage was empty except for Helen and a mic, a giant white circle was projected against the back screen. It was an excellent visual metaphor for the title of the song and as the song progressed and the lyrics reached the line "The sun gives her no mercy" the color of the circle had changed to a bright yellow, as the song moved into the 2rd verse the color gradually moved through orange as the lyrics hit the phrase "Long as afternoon shadows" into a red sunset color by the start of the 3rd verse and as the song ended the circle sank down into the stage leaving her holding the last notes in total darkness. Paradise and Nothing Can Come Between Us were done as a medley with her singing the vocals for the first part and her backup singers doing the 2nd half while she changed clothes. The band grooved so hard that it wasn't until the end of the song that you realized she was gone. Morning Bird was also a showcase tune for her voice as it was done as a duo with John Hale on piano. This was the most innovative in terms of its staging as the entire song was performed while the stage was covered by a sheer scrim onto which black and white video images of branches were projected. The feeling was as if the performers were in a dark forest, which added to the song's intense loneliness. After those minor pitch issues the first few songs she was in superb voice and effortlessly hit the high note at the end of Is it a Crime. That song was set apart from the others by the use of gorgeous red velvet curtains (or bunting) that hung high on the stage, this was the only use of a color other than black, white or grey in the stage decorations all night. At the Mark Etess Arena in the Taj Mahal Casino where I caught her show, almost the entire audience stood up at the beginning of the song and stood throughout. At various points between songs Sade would address the crowd, for someone who is famously shy and reserved, she was surprisingly at ease and almost gregarious. She very clearly loves performing and appears to genuinely appreciate the love and attention she and the band receive from live audiences. When she told the audience during the banter at the end of the 2nd song that "Your love is King" I completely and totally believed her. Most of the songs were arranged and performed just like they appeared on the albums although there was some improv on a few cuts and a few solos were taken on guitar as opposed to trumpet like the recordings. If you're a fan of her work, do whatever you gotta do to see this show. It was an amazing three hour experience, Sade's performance was very creatively staged by Sophie Muller and one that I'd put in my Top Three concerts ever.

WHY YOU NEVER ORDER A HURRICANE FROM A WAITRESS IN THE POKER ROOM

What stings the most about
the rain that falls tonight
isn't the angle it strikes
the eye
or how bitterly it burns,
but how it
soaks a sodden reality
down the back
and through the clothes,
how it washes the dust
off the shoes to reveal
the hard truth shining beneath.

You know how to be dogged
as well as you know
how to shadow your eyes,
know how to be cheated on
as well as you know how to serve
a cold Corona or hot coffee,
you know how to be stood up
as well as you know how to coordinate
a stunning outfit,
you know how to be lied to
as well as you know how to
angle a bun atop your head.
But just as you don't know how
to walk out onto Arctic Ave. and
determine which lane
points to Miami
and which to New York City,
you haven't learned
so simple a thing
as how to be loved by a man.

Perhaps that class was never scheduled
in Atlantic City elementary schools.
And who knows how many battles
a heart must bear before
it clenches into a fist
and begins to respect
only bare knuckles.
I cannot claim to know,
and so I wear no black robe,
carry no gavel,
call no courtroom to order.

This however,
makes the rain
no less raw.
I understand how some come
to take the tenderness of a man's hands
the same way they interpret a tear
in the bottom of a paper bag,
to hear the softness of his hello
the same as a leak in the roof,
see any sensitivity as a sign
he can't be dominant.
But I had almost convinced myself
that you were too wise to be
numbered among them.

Any fool knows that Yen
don't spend in Paraguay,
that Yuan are worthless
in Wichita,
and thus I accept
that whatever currency
of kindness I wave
might be counterfeit
in the hardware store
of your heart.
But it's no less devastating
a downpour that streaks the cheeks
of the streets tonight.
I had hoped to purchase
some hurricane matches,
to kindle a small flame
in a fireplace,
but this storm has dampened
all the cordwood.

The question is if
you wish
to learn to unstack it,
to set it out in tomorrow's sun,
to rotate it until all sides
are dry as an eye
which has never learned
to cry.

THE COLTRANE IN YOU

Knows the notes
you know to play
and the notes
you need to play
shimmer to shape
what you cannot say,
even if every note
could be explored.
Fears even if
every note is known,
meaning might
remain unreachable.
Knows what
you could’ve meant
is a melody
forever moistening
your mouthpiece,
filling the fifths
in the next bar.
What you could’ve played
and couldn’t play
rooted in the same chord,
which is always extending.
That Desire stretches
across a bed
in a suite
you seem to enter
next to a rope
of incense smoke
you remember,
in a hotel
you may not
check out of.
Every tongue
wants to probe
the mouth
of Imagination.
But what notes
the cursive smoke
is writing
blue the I.
A naked triad
tempts the rhythm.
Are you pure?
The key motif is modulation,
says the piano,
mercy, mercy.
In the acknowledgement,
during the opening riff,
there are
the mysteries of
the quarter moon.
It’s the first set.
The audience rocks forward,
well dressed, observant,
bopping with resolution
above their half-full glasses.
Like an august thunderstorm,
your sax threatens
to sanctify
the fingered strings
of the bass
as the unholy sticks cross,
but the cymbals
have the sound of cymbals
that are unheard.
So the audience,
witnesses and testifies.
You seek,
and they follow,
in a chorus-like fashion,
along the back wall,
and by the bar,
grooving in unison.
Filling the four chambers,
exposed brick walls,
color of brittle earth,
a room hurting
with dissonant exaltation.
And the smoke rises,
pursuance, pursuance,
The melody in the spirit
of shadows
flashes in the mirrors.
Then a door opens,
and the crowd's eyes widen.
Psalm, says the sax,
because the chairs
are full of ears,
opened religiously,
craving serenity.
Nimbus, nimbus
says the sax:
but your fingers
can’t find
a complex enough chord.
Notes played and
notes to be played,
what was almost whispered
and what couldn't be said:
no redemption,
but these digressions
on the downbeat
raining, raining . . .

NIGHT TRAIN

for Phyllis Hyman

What distant cry is this,
what drifting moan,
whose tasseled scarf
of turquoise colored notes
caresses the dark arms
of dusk?
Then floats and trails,
rippling silver as scales
or stones awash and
polished in a sonic stream
that bobs the head
and taps a tempted toe.
Wends sibilant seduction
in its flow,
vanishing
towards the morning
like a dream.
Phyllis,
your whistling lips
pouted with flair,
and slowly brushed
the naked neck
of night
with a sound,
hi-hatted in harmony,
that soared.
Your short solo
of hard earned air
dipped and bewitched
as it fluttered;
a kite
tugging on its cord
that too soon,
broke free.

PSALMS 98.5 FM

5 Send shoutouts to the DJ upon the mic
upon the mic and in the voice of an Emcee.
6 With turntables and the sounds of scratching
give mad props to the DJ, the GrandMaster.
7 Let the crowd roar, and the fulness thereof;
the club, and they that dance therein.
8 Let the dancers clap their hands:
let the strobe lights flash together
9 before the Almighty DJ;
for surely he cometh
to rock the house:
with a righteous rhythm
shall he rock the house,
and boost the bass with EQ.

THE BOOK OF RHYMES

From Jump street was the Rhyme,
and the Rhyme was with the Creator,
and the Rhyme was the Creator.
It was with the Creator off the break.
Through it all lines were spit;
without it nothing was spit that has been spit.
In it was Flow,
and that Flow was the rhythm of all peoples.
The rhythm echoed in the silence,
and the silence could not subdue it.
There was an MC sent from the Creator
whose name was Rakim Allah.
He became an Emcee to manifest that Flow,
so that through him all might hear.
He himself was not the Flow;
he came only to manifest the Flow.
The illest Flow that gives pulse to all parties,
that rocks the place to be.
He blessed the mic, and though the mic was blessed by him,
the mic did not recognize him.
He came to those who were his peoples,
but all his people didn't feel him.
Yet to all who did feel him,
to those who recognized the Flow,
he gave the ability to bob to the beat—
beats born not of a live instrument,
nor of a wax record or a crossfader,
but born of the Creator.
The Rhyme became flesh and kicked it among us.
We therefore check the technique,
the technique of the one and only Emcee,
who came from the Father,
no joke, to make the mic smoke.

THE AUDUBON IN YOU

Your egrets land after the sun goes down,
whirling on the evening wind
wide as the smile of a winking woman,
whose lipstick is a deadly sin,
yet shines like an Archangel's conscience.
Your egrets are long-beaked,
fish the cloudy marsh of your conscience,
they do not eat like Herons,
their hunger will not be sated
by any multicaloric act of contrition.
Your egrets are sacred, but will not sit
pretty on the head like
your grandmother's Sunday hats.
Your egrets caw as they claw the water's skin,
caws sharp as the teeth of a tiger shark.
Your egrets are not an endangered species,
they rise plumed like geysers in moonlight
and multiply like mathematicians from MIT.
You recall the words that hatched
many of your smaller egrets
as they surround your squeaky bed at night
with their rapid knee-high cries
Your biggest egret tosses its head
like a woman you never asked to marry you.
You sometimes wonder as they
strut about in their long-legged gait;
how they fly so far on those thin white wings,
how they maintain such perfect memories,
why you feed them so religiously every night?

THE DANTE IN YOU

A rose
blooms from
open throats,
moves through tongues
pink and purple,
meaning
rising in yourself,
but beyond you:
shrouded forms
spiritual as mist
floating across a river,
variables in
an equation of flame.
A psalm
swirling sideways,
notes taken or not,
silence taken
advantage of.
Because prayer is
a tongue trying
to trust lips and teeth,
cowed,
yet called
by rising or open vowels
to Amen,
you hear the hymn
of her tattooed ankle,
arched eyebrow
and scarred lip.
You believe
exquisitely as a long kiss
in all the ways
Tongues can twist
and wonder if
the molten music
of your mouths
can be held
as Communion.

THE O’HARA IN YOU

You want No Limit,

which of course means
you are standing in front

of the Borgata’s poker room
waiting for an open seat,
as G.S. passes by;
and it’s a Thursday
(which is her Monday),
and she is walking as though
carrying something heavy
(albeit not in her hands),
and you think you hear her sigh,
and recall Lonnie
(whom she might not know)
not Lonnie who was always
pawning his wedding band
so he could feed the penny slots
or Lonnie from The Hill
who always seemed to be
half a slice short
of a sandwich,
but Lonnie from
'Lonnie's Lament'
(and here she
cocks her head and
wrinkles her nose
saying "Who?")
mostly because whatever blew
his rain so sideways
inspired John William to put
a saxophone between his lips
and blaze a lamentation
which matches
her Monday motion,
a wistful grace
with piano lines almost
lengthy as her legs
and a bassline that
plunges like her hair
when she combs it
into a black Niagra,
which she can't know
makes you wish
you could spend
the rest of your days
naked and trembling
in a wooden barrel,
falling forever through
its obsidian mist.

THE BASHō IN YOU

light drizzle
On the Boxwood leaves-
her lips

Hair flying
as she swirls away-
April breeze

Iron span
across the river-
her bare spine

Waitresses' smile-
splash of blackberry brandy
in evening tea

April night
this meteor shower-
her laughter

rainy darkness-
lingering on her tongue
Licorice

Cowrie shell
shining in her dreadlocks-
The North Star

THE BUKOWSKI IN YOU

When the last pile of chips
gets shipped the other way,
when your wallet gapes
like the mouth of

a two-coated man prone
on a park bench;
what else is there to do
but stagger out of

the Taj Mahal's poker room

and return to the shadows
of an empty womb,
then curl up like
the last macaroni
stuck to a paper plate?
You sense even the women
cleaning under the tables
and dumping the trash's last odors
wouldn't sweep you
into their dusty pans.
The red deck, the blue deck,
the shuffle machine,
have conspired to
make you feel like
the darkness under
the dealer's manicured nails,
his Rolex stopped to watch.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Everything you touch stutters.
You can't remember
what singing sounded like
before the Ace of Hearts
punctured your last lung,
can't feel your buddy
tapping your shoulder
asking "How much you down"?
You remember the elevator
ride to your room,
39 floors of sunk stomach
before the white scowl
of a towel spread across
the bathroom floor.
Suppose you were nothing
but a hand towel
in a $49 motel?
Suppose you lived
to lick beads of brightness
from a working girl's back,
but all you had
was parched lips
and a swollen tongue?
That's why whiskey
clings to the bottle,
slight burn in the beginning,
then oak smooth and
polished as an expensive casket,
that's why when
the last card turns,
whatever you hear
sounds like a bullet.
More so if you dig
digging in moist earth.
Even more so, if
you're a not a gardener
or a man in a straw hat
wanding the beach for beeps.
You're addicted to
the dance of the Blue deck,
but also to the way
the Red deck parts like
a pair of painted lips.
You're addicted to
to knowing that even
a gypsy psychic
can't find your card first,
no matter how far she
follows a palm's
rugged grooves
like wood grain.
You're addicted to
knowing the cards love
no one
but the next hands
to hold them.
Is there anything
sexier than
putting it all-in and
having the moment
Morse code thru your veins?
Anything sexier
than the way
desperation's dress
hugs her hips ?
That's why you return,
why you tease your chair
to the table's edge
and post a blind bet,
why you peel the corner
of your hole cards
like they're prosperity's
last pair
of good panties.

May Haiku/Senryu and 7 Word Poems.

Gonna try to keep the momentum I started in April by writing at least 15 haiku or Senryu during May. 30 is too much pressure, but 15 is doable without me having to churn out crap just to meet a quota.

Midnight
meteor shower-
her laughter

New moon-
the unturned

calendar

crow

powerline

Nikes

Fresh snow-

"Taeshaun" dripping down 

a brick wall

Two planes  Two Towers  Fire raining

pinging
in the Beggar's cup-
April rain

Blue buoy
Bobbing in the surf-
my son's smile

SEVEN WORD POEMS

Time to
learn a language.
Her tongue.

Just above
the overturned chair.
Inmate's feet.

Under her
nails. Enough skin
to hex.

Trembling urge 
of this needle-
spill ink

THE AL-KHWARIZMI IN YOU

There's an algebra
for all of it:
the windmills

behind the casino

turning their giant Xs
into late night whys,
the moon's curvature

like a midnight calculus,

the tide rising

into the asymptotic

longing of a line.
Even for the arc

of a brand new

table tennis paddle
that your sweaty hand
now grips
or the velocity of the balls

(larger than they've

ever been)
spinning across the net
between your namesake
and your imagination.
Where he,

still a baby

burps and sighs
asleep in a crib.
The trajectory
seeming derivative,
almost always
of the desire.
Two Greek letters

on different sides
of an equation,

each ciphering
the other,

each signifying

an absence

by their italicised presence.
Daddy, Daddy,
don't you know
I miss you,

his sigh says.
He rests his head

on the hollow

of your chest.
Asks when

are you coming back?
There's an algebra
for all of it.
What you've
done with the days
since you left,
what you tried to do,
or might have tried,
had you correctly
solved for all the variables,
though you had
no slope to graph,

no slide to rule them.

A gulf

with no echoes

for answers.

As he whispered

to you once,

his lips are

an empty set now.

Two brackets
attempting an embrace
because kisses,

however long ago,

count and multiply

in the abacus of memory.
Moments that

can only approximate

an algorithm.
There's an algebra
for all of it,

the floating

function of the seagulls,

the breaking

but unbroken waves,

the ghostly geometry

of the foam.

Perhaps even

for how two pairs

of footprints,

non-linear as any equation

whose notation

haunts the horizon,

might solve

all this sand

between them.

THE MOST POETIC MAN IN THE WORLD

I love the Dos Equis commercials and was messing around with some of my own lines and this came out of it:

THE MOST POETIC MAN IN THE WORLD
(for Jeffrey McDaniel)

Before he was even born, Shakespeare plagiarized him,
He was conceived in a French villanelle
and born with a silver spondee in his mouth.
The only prescription he's ever filled was written by Dr. Seuss.
Entire orchestras of conductors weep when he plays his Sestina.
He once thought an E wasn't short enough, it's been silent ever since.
His haiku are so concise, they need only 1.7 syllables,
On his reading tours, Closed Interpretations open for him,
He struts the streets of New York clad only in a purple Pantoum.
His mother wears his Easter sonnet- every Sunday.
His feet are so exquisitely iambic, his pedicurist pays him.
He once rocked a party by beatboxing the Song of Solomon.
He doesn’t always recite his work, but when he does;
he prefers to replace the vowels with Xs. “Stay quirky, my friend.”

National Poetry Month 30/30- A Haiku/Senryu a Day

April mist-
on the leaves
on her lips

dawn sky
among brown branches
only cherry blossoms

This waitress' smile-
splash of Blackberry brandy
in evening tea

Trying to ignore
the waitress ignoring me-
Dealer splits the pot.

Her sidelong glance-
white foam roiling
a wave

Smiling
back from Break-
with Sambuca breath.

Fresh Pizza-
seagull takes a sideways
glance.

summer darkness-
Licorice lingering
on her tongue

April drizzle-
Pit Bull soaking the side of
a Porta-John.

ordering
water from the waitress-
voice cracking

tall grass
Tiger crouches, staring-
the ball?

April afternoon-
deer nibbling the
Driving Range

at the lip
of the cup-
Sunset

April dusk-
this flag loudly snapping
my back tightens

Ghost
whose shadow is memory-
river turning

April 15th-
counting what is left of
my fingernails

Jazz and cocktails
your siren song to tempt me-
Again wrong

Essay on Etheridge-
Gang Starr from a speaker
Guru rest in peace.

Rain beads on glass-
An armful of white blossoms
on black branches.

Starry night-
Beside this ATM
bank of Lilies.

Swirling
as she turns away-
April breeze.

Sunset, a song
falls across her shoulders-
"Love is Found"

steady rain-
a goose broken in the road
its mate honking

low fog-
high coo of a mourning
dove

Milky fog  starless
ocean stretches to pour-
waiting

the rain
slashing through-
leaves

after gunshots-
the front steps splashed in red
lights

Easter morning-
biscuits in the oven
rising

In this soldier's scope
the wide eye of a Nikon-
unblinking

Falling softly-
fingers on guitar strings
Phoebe Snow

crossing the bridge
steel riveted truss-
holding hands

iron span
arching the river-
her bare back

What may be

On Poker and Peppers

. . . things that grew loud when the street grew empty,
and breaths that let themselves be breathed
to freight a human argument,
and sidelong glances in the midst of things . . .
Jorie Graham

Never had much interest
in being smooth
like the skin of a pepper
or slick as the seeds inside,
(not because I didn't want to be hot)
but because like
a cayenne red lipstick,
slick wears off too quick.
Never minded looking naive,
it causes the slicksters
to show their hands.
We all make different choices,
but my friends are the ones
who tell me the truth
about the strength of my hand.

Perhaps there was a naive boy
with a dream.
And when I ask you
on the phone
if we will ever pick
cayenne peppers together,
you say "Maybe."
All gardeners know that maybes
can be like cayennes on the vine,
this one green as a Yes,
that one yellow as Perhaps,
the other bright red as No.

Gardeners choose
which peppers get picked

and by whom.

You could have said
that you don't pick peppers
with poker players,
but you said "Maybe."
And maybe I'm just a boy
with a naive dream,
maybe only slicksters get
to pick those peppers,
maybe somebody bluffed
(which is part of the game),
maybe they forgot
they would have to
turn over their hand,
maybe one day they'll realize
how much it costs

to get called . . .

Old poem, New Version.

I'm pretty sure that this is the final version. Took me forever to find the right ending.


THE MAN WITH THE BLUES GUITAR
(For Robert Johnson, after Wallace Stevens)

Three

The man [hat cocked] picked at his guitar,
A traveling-man of sorts. The day was yellow.

They said, "You got a [beat up] blues guitar,
Can you play things colored as they are?"

The man replied [cigarette dangling], "Thangs
as they are, Is colored different on a blues guitar."

And they said to him [Bible-eyed], "But play, you must,
A tune outside of you, but of yourself,

The [Gospel] truth on your blues guitar,
Of things colored as they are."

Six

I can’t paint a picture quite square,
Although I stroke it with much care.

I don’t sing a man's shined shoes, gold tooth
or new suit, but his eternal soul,

I eye him as well I can and conjure
Him up with my mojo hand.

When I pluck him up, moody as the moon
Not sunlit like things as some say they are,

It’s a serrated howl traveling through
these fingers what pick a blues guitar.

Nine

A tune colored (as we are),
Yet somehow blued by the [moaning] guitar;

Ourselves [softly] humming as if in tune,
Yet nothing changed, except the place

Of things as they are and the notes
As he bent them on the blues guitar,

Played just so, the chords of change,
Heard in a damned juke-joint;

For an eternity damned, the way
The howl of hellhounds sound where

Even the hand of god is haze.
The tune stops time. The blues [thusly plucked]

Become the crux of things as they are,
The crossroads at midnight on a guitar.

Twelve

Are the [Hellhound] blues his?
His devil of a delta guitar

Fills the [smoky] juke-joint with dancing women
In thrall with the moon. The yellow-eyed men

Of the women are now [dark] blue, and coming
For his [middle-parted] head that never lies

Alone at night. He picks a string of dilemmas.
Can he change the tune as it is? And how,

As he fingers his frets, can he
Escape that note which echoes

unlike an [eternal] resolution and yet,
Must be. Could the Blues be anything else?

It's her hands
(of all things)
that I twitch for most,
because on each
of her fingertips
a maze whorls
with pleasure.  
What I may miss
in tracing a line
on her palm
I might divine
in the next.  
Even her pinky can probe
like a searchlight,
find what
I fear revealed.
Her slender thumbs
can oppose with grace
(Will they oppose me?)
Her index rises,
a tender wand,
a tenth of what
nightly troubles my blood:
a touch more subtle
than can be surmised.
All night,
each nail
a pale croissant
to be craved. 

THE VAN GOGH IN YOU

The VAN GOGH IN YOU

It steeps in starlight.
You feel it fall like freed water.
It bathes you in dopamine before dawn.
You take your breath from its whispers,
sitting like a sunflower in the corner.
Invisible by day and radiant by night,
it has a flame
that dances in all seasons.
It scurries from the rough
of young men's hands,   
from the smoke of opinion,
a cloud of ash floating
from a jagged cone.
When you press your ear to its heart,   
there is no note of any night.
And yet you call it nightly,
the possible oracle of an impossible song. 
But song is not the limit of its genius.   
The ear gorges itself on many frequencies.   
The fingers may caress
whatever key depresses.   
The lungs fill themselves
with various verses.   
The brain debates with no Coda.
It ripples the sea
like a new breeze,   
curls and peaks to many points.
You wait, unbated
to tangle in its tangents,
to scale the sails of silence
and read the ripples,
not as number,
but as Sine.

DUET

Under a duvet of darkness,
ears softening
in the silence,
you peek over.
Who could predict this?
An unfurling,
each touch
with the power
to part lips.
Making of their shading
and highlighting
a school of tactile undertow
that can pull or draw by
softest sixteenths
arterial eddies and ripples,
candlelit flickers
glancing the outer cheek,
shimmerings that shape
the banks of a river.
This isn't parenthesis.
This is the trouble clef.
Everybody hears
what they desire.
Always it is the same.
The purity
in the longing.
What we hear
is almost a tonic,
yes and yes with
each shivering breath,
climbing the scales
of the dark.
You are free to sigh.
I cannot of course read music.
Only these scars
curled like lashes
around your eyes.
Listen.
A whisper’s siblings
vibrate into
quick muscled twitches
and tightenings,
condensing
in saline beads,
swirling sibilance
of an unbounded bed,
The stream
spills its banks,
pooling itself,
pulling gleaming abdomens
and tangled legs
beneath disbelief's blanket,
where a tender tremoring
involuntary dances.

Invisible by day and silent by night,
her wisdom curls like a cloud of ash
from a jagged cone.

Poem inspired by the Art Exhibit Weaving In and Out

A Cumulus Loom

I used to float
in a sea of sheets
and listen as you whistled
an aqua tune in the shower.
Mornings tinted by
a stream of air
made to modulate,
unwind and become silken thread.
Then a furious storm
split the oak that
shaded our house.
Now, rain splashes my gutters
on a morning so gray
its girders rust,
so starved for rhythm
it strums me
with liquid fingers.
If only I could summon
that rippled air, woven breeze.   
swab my ears in the flow
as it rinses away the pull
of tension from muscles,
towels a terry melody
over my hungry body.
How like the clouds
to resemble
pursed lips,
how like the Dawn
to moisten them
as its first blue deed.

Kind of Blue

TRUMPET LESSONS

It eyed me at adolescence,
hot air trembling
along the curves of its bell,
hovering like held notes.
From the hallway,
the classroom beckoning
as if blue lit.
All it wanted was
to be carried home
in a case with handles,
a velvet lining,
a conical mute.
It promised to teach me
how to moan
in private.
My own mouth,
moistened so few times,
became a double bed
for it to dream in.
I recall a soft cloth,
stroking sheen,
the bright curving smile it left.
Found its body
a balm for stiff fingers,
even when I couldn't
handle its bursts of brassiness,
even when anything but
the Blues would do and
the deepest Blues
were all I knew.
And Miles
above us both—
hoarse whispers
haunting a muted mouth,
heresy set adrift on air.
There was a scented oil
glistening its valves.
Inside its coiled body,
my wet, rhythmic breath:
a note awaiting
an open ear.

On Glossolalia

The Way Faith Works

invokes notes
threading from
a flooded throat,
moving through tongues
pink and purple,
something
rising in ourselves,
but beyond us:
shrouded forms
spiritual as mist
floating across a river,
variables in
an equation of flame.
The way psalms work
is swirling sideways,
notes taken or not,
silence taken
advantage of.
Prayer is
a tongue trying
to trust lips and teeth,
cowed, yet called by
rising or open vowels
to Amen.
I hear the hymn
of your tattooed ankle,
arched eyebrow
and scarred lip.
I believe
exquisitely as a long kiss
in all the ways
our Tongues can twist.
Can the melted music
of our mouths
be held
as communion?

Riddle Me This, Batgirl!

Vuks ot znk Qke ul MM

What if someone
invented a language
out of clones of the 7th letter,
and "Baby juice, Baby juice?"
Then served it in short texts
or long conversations?
The words would look ordinary
but be filled with peanut butter,
they might sweeten in the sun,
but never darken with brown spots
or become mushy.
How would such a language
wear its hair?
Swept up into a knot
that resembles a rose
or falling over like a fountain?
The punctuation would be
formed with white chips
and black straws,
the conjunctions shopped for
at Barneys New York,
the interjections minty green
and only available
every March.
The letter "V" would be red
and visit small screens
every Tuesday night,
the letter "N"
would not mean "North",
nor "S" mean "South"
(who could find them anyway)
the other letters would all
be small walnut tiles
on mahogany racks
that you could switch around
in your head.
The pet phrases would be furry
and small enough to fit in a purse
(although they might rattle
with snores all night long).
This language would know
"Coffee Can Make You Black"
and contain a "Litany"
and beautiful "Puzzles"
with a secret "At Dawn"
that might escape the notice
of even the Queen of Google.
All liquid sentences would
be pressed from soy into Silk,
the vowels have
straight white teeth
and none of the consonants
would be composed
of custard.
Nor would any of its paragraphs
dig Lime Green Gators,
contain pig parts,
or tolerate runny eggs.
Who could comprehend
such a thing?
Surely it could make no sense?
If one fell asleep listening,
could you set it
to shut off after 15 minutes?
And what could one
create with
this new lingo?
Any poem written in it
would surely
be ticklish all over.
Perhaps something bold
as the toasted bagels of eternal joy
or mundane as "Get Well soon."
I do not know
how long it might take
to master it,
but I would retire every night
reciting its random sonnets,
then roll over each morning
to search again
for the warm secrets
of that esoteric tongue.

From Wiki

Why Bertholletia Hums the Orchid Bee Blues
(Found Poem)

The Brazil nut tree's
yellow flowers
contain
very sweet nectar
but can only
be pollinated
by an insect
strong enough
to lift the
coiled hood . . .
and with tongues
long enough
to negotiate
the complex
coiled
flower.

I wrote this poem years ago, but was never satisfied with the ending.

SOLO (IN THE KEY OF NICOLE)
 
She’s Miss Sweet Potato Brown
 a steamy cocoa statuette
   with caramel-colored eyes
and fine tuned fingers.
And with pepper tongue twirling
   she sets whole rooms whirling
her black tresses swirling
 so devilishly dervish
and needlessly nervous
 though wordlessly
   wordlessly weird.
After kissing her
 I stumble into a drugstore
   and desperately undress all the chocolate bars.
Though she refuses all my flowers
 and will not hold my hand
   she sleeps with me in a heavy sweater
     almost frantically afraid of the cold.
And it’s not until morning light
 over raspberry tea, that I read
   in the lines around her smile
that she's parked in passion’s alley
 searched through many cans
and shivered in the shadows
 with moon-stained hands.

Seascape with Vessel

Her voice
calls in currents,
the melody washing
like incoming waves.
Medleyed
with a moving sun,
her aria tracks
the heart's arc.
As all that would rise
fear what falling may follow,
she is careful,
sings of descent first,
is cautious with what
she allows to be heard
in the harmony.
She knows the sea
and the Song of Salt
are composed
in the same key,
but still chooses
to bathe in what
the tide utters
in the interim,
word
by rising
word.

Her voice
is more searchlight
than song, splashes the dunes
with waves of something
wilder than water.
Her lyrics are a people's sighs
medleyed with moonlight,
a geyser like whales exhaling.
Since tears also shine,
what saline circles
she's tasted, sparkle
like traces of grace
in the foam
swirling across
what beaches she walks.
And we wonder
what price of translation
she pays, as she sings
in a dress that is fraying
and slowly utters
every word
by barefoot
word.

Lonnie's Lament

She floods the room,
a flash of moonlight,
the pressure of night rising.
I feel my taut strings plucked
by hands soft enough
to wreck religion.
I hear sharps and flats,
the subtle fingerings
that form her signature.
I feel indigo ventricles
improvise emotions
they can't contain.
See the saucy hips,
the twin legends
of her legs,
that cryptic tattoo,
the tresses braiding rumor
and myth. See
how she pimps mystique
into solo and chorus
inside a blouse.
Her skirt flashes through my past
like Billie's final sigh
teasing hopeful lungs
in a haunted torso.
I hear her halo
tilt to caress the curve
of the ear, chords born
from the marriage
of catfish and cornmeal,
from lacquered brass
and that last goodbye.
Check her thick thighs,
how they resolve into
an ankle's passion
for expensive bracelets
and the foot's five types of finesse;
the sweet tonic of each toe.
The daughter of possibilty
and pain, this onyx angel
skips like a rock across
my river, conjuring
the holiness of dragonflies.
I know the knickname
hidden like a curse word
under her scarlet tongue.
How can I forget those lips
whose low moan caressed
my neck all night,
when their prints linger
longer than the burn of Bourbon
on my mouth?

Ode to Two Lips

Horizontal half-moons
soft as cinematic whispers,
last night heard my tongue
pray for the sacred space
between you.
I want you for
your red's exquisite sheen,
for how easy it is
to be transfixed
by the Two of Heart's glossy finish.
You know it isn't good sense
that makes me imagine
your fat bottom gleaming.
Months ago,
I dreamt you as sliced halves
of fruit beneath glass,
above teeth white
as an apple's exposed flesh.
But now I'm shoplifting Chapstick,
brushing gloss
across a canvas
stretched like skinny jeans
after a binge,
bewitched by what
surrounds your mouth's
satin machine.
You've been chapped
by wind, salt and sunlight.
But a single lick
from the scarlet felt
of a wandering tongue,
can make everything supple again.
And when are your
busses scheduled?
I want to caress
a fever into your fullness,
sighs from your corners.
You need no MAC,
Max Factor,
Revlon, Clinique, or Avon.
Peck.
Peck.
Peck.
Now that I've kissed
the blues for you,
come close and hum
your cinnamon song.

New day. New try.

It's funny how the world works. I had started this poem a few months earlier as an experiment, trying to create a poetic analogue to a mathematical proof (Furstenberg's "Infinitude of Primes"). But although the resulting poem was somewhat interesting, the experiment was a failure on the conceptual level. So, after a while I decided to give up on the analogue idea and just edit the poem to get the best poem possible. And what do you know, just as soon as I stop trying the analogue concept and just do what's best for the poem, Bam! I stumble into a way to make the concept work.

ON THE INFINITUDE OF KISSES
(for Big Kenny and Little Kenny)

Let us define a topology
on the emotion L
by imagining a sub-love L₁,
to be an open love
if and only if
it either contains
open kisses
or it contains
a union of emotional sequences
L(f, s),
where L(f, s)=hearts open as wounds.
In other words,
a sub-love L₁,
can be open if and only if
every hesitant male heart
that is a member of L₁
admits some non-hero condition F or S.
The axioms for a topology
are easily verified:
by definition,
an open mouth kiss is open;
L is just the sequence L(U, I),
and (if true) is open as well.
For any collection of open mouths
the intersection of two
(and hence finitely many)
open mouths is an open kiss:
Let the lips U and I
form open mouths,
then, let the mouths meet.
The topology is quite different
from the usual Euclidean one,
and has two notable properties:
Since any open mouth
contains infinite kisses,
no finite mouth can be open;
put another way,
the complement of an open kiss
cannot be a closed mouth.
The basis mouths {father, son}
are closed by nature,
but we can imagine L(f, s)
as the complement
of an open mouth as follows:
"There are many kinds of open
how a diamond comes into a knot of flame
how sound comes into a word . . .
. . . Love is a word, another kind of open."
Among the sounds
that are emotional multiples
of open kisses
is rain falling on a field,
i.e. [a topology of tears]
By the first property,
the mouth (raining sky)
cannot be closed.
On the other hand,
by the second property,
the mouth (fallow field) is closed.
So, if there were only
finitely many drops of rain
then the mouths (field, sky)
would be in a finite union
of closed mouths,
and hence closed.
This would
be a contradiction,
thus L(f, s) must contain
infinitely many
drops of rain
falling
in an open field.

Litany For A February Day

Before, I might have dreamt
of the swirling agates of your eyes,
or the coal-colored
corn silk of your hair,
or even the velvet cushions
of your lips.
But, as I become
a more religious man
I pray silently for the soft halo
of your hands.
I do not pray the way
a kneeling Nun recites a rosary
for orphans in a Favela
or the way a penitent priest
invokes "Our Father"
before his congregation,
but how in mid-July,
a pair of blue mittens
pray from the darkness of a box
for what can only fill them
from the inside.
I wait for your hands
the way gallons of Butter Pecan
frozen behind frosted glass
wait for the mouth
that will melt it,
I coil for them
the way Spaghetti on a plate
coils for the tines of the fork
that will lift it onto
the warm wonder of a tongue.
I hunger for your right hand
small in the hollow of my back,
your left hand blessing the blades
of my shoulders.
I crave each of your slender fingers
as a smoker's lips
crave ten naked Newports.
My chest prays for your hands
the way the front yard
under its heavy sweater of leaves
prays for the sweep of a rake
to lay it bare and raise small hills.
My face imagines your hands
as a second story window
imagines the brush
of airborne blossoms.
My arms tingle for your fingertips
the way a branch tingles
under a caterpillar's feet,
my legs pray for your palms
as silk curtains drawn at night
pray to be parted
in the rising heat of morning.
And what does it mean
if my entire body
dreams of nothing but
falling asleep dotted
by your fingerprints
like a leopard
with a thousand glowing spots,
awaiting your caress
as blank paper
awaits the kiss
of the calligrapher's pen,
as rainy windshields
await the swish
of wiper blades,
as every morning
those cups stacked high
behind the counter at Starbucks
become sinners at a Revival
waiting to be made holy
by simply being held
in your hands.

World AIDS Day

FATHER, SON AND THE WHOLLY GHOST

We meet only

in the alleys of memory.

Our broken smiles

glitter on the ground.

Although we bear the same name,

identical scars,

you can't remember

what day I was born.

Anger spills

down the side of my face.

This is what you have taught me:

needles are as hollow as lies,

collapse more families

than veins.

Now a prisoner in death's camp,

you grow thinner every day

until I can count your T-cells

on one hand.

The phone rings,

Mama pleads

Please buy a dark suit to wear.

I tell her

I wear black

every day,

all day,

anyway.

Surfing USA

OK, I'm now on Google Wave, if there are any other new adopters out there waving. Looking forward to exploring the possibilities, especially in terms of dealing with poetry and workshop/critique.

Page Meets Stage

If you're in the NYC area, I'll be reading at the Bowery Poetry Club with Terrance Hayes on Wednesday, December 9th @9pm. It's part of their monthly Page Meets Stage reading series. If you can't get to NYC, there will be live streaming video at www.bowerypoetrylive.com.

NIGHT HAWK

You know you can't
whistle for Love
in this city,
even if it stalks the streets
like a gypsy cab
over pavement
feigning hard

to preserve its solitary lines.
Your ears open themselves
to catch any cry.
Some are flocked together,
others have sought the solace

of a solo glide.
At the end of each avenue
you hear the lyrics
of Love's myriad migrations.
You imagine it
perched in a tall tree,
trapped in branches
until a storm stops.
You realize you
cannot decipher
even a single chirp.
You dim the lights
for the night

and kneel.
And maybe mid-dream,

a flapping
startles you,
alighting
on the sill
of a window
you forgot to close.

For G.S.

. . . only because it was a Thursday
(which is her Monday)
and she was walking as though
carrying something heavy
(albeit not in her hands),
and I thought I heard her sigh,
and recalled Lonnie
(who you might not know)
not Lonnie who was always
pawning his wedding band
so he could feed the penny slots
or Lonnie from The Hill
who always seemed to be
half a slice short
of a sandwich,
but Lonnie from
'Lonnie's Lament'
(and here she
cocks her head and
wrinkles her nose
saying "Who?")
because whatever blew
his rain so sideways
inspired John William to put
a saxophone between his
lips and blaze
a lamentation
which matches
her Monday motion,
a wistful grace
with piano lines almost
lengthy as her legs
and a bassline that
plunges like her hair
when she combs it
into a black Niagra
which she doesn't know makes me wish
I could spend
the rest of my days
naked and trembling
in a wooden barrel,
falling forever through
its obsidian mist.

A Decent Day

I was waiting for the bus outside the Borgata casino when I turned around and looked in the direction of Philly and this haiku presented itself to me;

Atop their stalks

these windmills slicing, slicing-

the quarter moon.

This is an older poem that I finally found the right ending to.

MAN CARRYING TUNE
(after Wallace Stevens)

A poem must seduce
the senses most successfully.

Illustration:
A noir figure (back-turned) on stage
entices an audience of eyes.

The muted blues he trumpets
entice even the least open ears.

Accept them then, as key
(notes almost perceived
as known melodies,

uncertain notation of certain chords,
the roots full of doubt,

notes floating like the last of Autumn Leaves
on a soft breeze that could swirl all night,
on a key breeze of cobalt notes),

A cascade of sensation
now fully falling.

We will bathe
In these sensations all song,
as a blue mysterious

beckons in the dark.


(For Miles Davis)

SIJO IN BLUE

The Sijo (SHE-jo) is a Korean form, similar to its younger cousin haiku. They are written in 3 lines and contain no more than 46 syllables. Unlike haiku, metaphor, simile and other wordplay is permitted.


I pace the beach at dawn,
my footsteps, haiku in sand

I ask the whitecaps, why Derrion,
why only sixteen?

Lake Michigan falls on its shore,
the Hawk wheels and wails above.

A Few Haiku

I have been writing (or trying to write) haiku for over 12 years. It's only in the last couple of days that I feel like I may finally have a firm grasp of the form. This is exciting for me, because I feel like I can now begin to write a few decent pieces. We'll see; anyway here are some older attempts that I've revised.


summer sunset-
a woman crying into
her cellphone

country road-
our brakes screech at
a squirrel

Spring shower-
a white cat under the
drycleaner’s awning

summer shimmer-
that woman talking to herself
wears two coats

March wind –
The white king topples on
the chess table

the white moon-
kissing my uncle's name
in black granite

Sunrise- only lipstick in my wineglass

after the snowstorm-
not one loaf of bread
on this store's shelves

a cowrie shell in her dreadlocks-

the North star

spring sunlight-
dust devils dancing
after the broom

summer lightning-
the edge of your teeth
on my nipple

August heat-
the man in front of the bank
begs for change

sunrise-
three men shiver outside
Kogod's Liquors

at the red light-
the rain on the windshield
stops

bright afternoon-
After that swooping hawk
this swirling feather

On the Rationality of Last Night

Recall that:

the passion is the moan plus the tingle;

the passion is to the moan as the moan is to the tingle.

If we call the passion K and the moan B, then the second statement above becomes

K is to B as B is to K − B,

or, algebraically:

Kiss is to Bite, as Bite is to Kiss minus Bite.

To say that last night was rational

means that last night was

a fraction (Kiss divided by Bite) where K and B are intertwined.

We may take (Kiss divided by Bite) to be in roughest terms

and K and B to be still tender.

But if (Kiss divided by Bite) is in roughest terms,

then the identity labeled (rationality) above

says (Bite dreaming of Kiss divided by Bite) is in still rougher terms.

That is a contradiction

which follows from the assumption

that last night was rational.

Hillel Furstenberg Greets His Newborn Son

(for Big Kenny, Little Kenny and Joel₃)

Let us define a topology
on the emotion L
by declaring a sub-love L₁
{Father, Son}
to be an open love
if and only if
it either contains
an open mouth kiss, ∅,
or it contains a union
of emotional sequences L(f, s),

where L(f, s) = hands open like wounds

= tears cascading across lips.

In other words,
a sub-love L₁ is open if and only if
every hesitant male heart
admits some non-zero condition f or s
such that L(f, s) ⊆ L₁.
The axioms for a topology
are easily verified:
By definition, an open mouth kiss, ∅, is open;
L is just the sequence L(U, I),
and so could be open as well.
Any union of open mouths is open:
for any collection of open mouths
the intersection of two
(and hence finitely many)
open mouths is open:

let U₁ and I₂ be our open mouths
and let hungry lips ∈ open mouths
(with lips s₁ and s₂

establishing membership).
Mouth f to be the

lowest common multiple of f₁ and f₂.
Then, let the mouths meet.
The topology is quite different
from the usual Euclidean one,
and has two notable properties:
Since any open mouth
contains an infinite language,
no finite mouth can be open;
put another way,
the complement of a finite mouth
cannot be a closed mouth.
The basis mouths {f, s}
can be both open and closed:
they are closed by nature,
but we can imagine L(f, s)
as the complement
of an open mouth as follows:
"There are many kinds of open
how a diamond comes into a knot of flame
how sound comes into a word . . .
. . . Love is a word, another kind of open."
Among the sounds
that are emotional multiples
of prime kisses are
thunder and rain flooding a field,
i.e. [a topology of tears]
By the first property,
the mouth (sky) on the left-hand side
cannot be closed.
On the other hand,
by the second property,
the mouth (field) is closed.
So, if there were only
finitely many prime kisses,
then the mouth (sky) on the
left-hand side would be
in a finite union of closed mouths,
and hence closed.
This would be a contradiction,
thus L(f, s) must contain
infinitely many
prime kisses.

Seven Things

Seven Things I Should Have Said, Before You Left.

I preferred your sandwich with the crust untrimmed,
Your sighs were iridescent oil on asphalt,
Domination always twitching on the fringes.
The secret? The alphabet trick with my tongue.

Your voice steeped fragrant as loose leaf Darjeeling,
brown bits of cinnamon stick on my tympani,
most nights I dug its squall of sudden spice.
And any bag, even silk, was too much restraint.

Given time, the bend of The Butterfly Position
(insistence banging the bottom of the bundle)
gears shifting like a manic derailleur
probably could have cured your scoliosis.

I never liked your girlfriend with the organic perfume,
that protracted eyebrow, a geometric sneer,
knew she was orange juice on a sore throat,
afterbirth on ice, dripping all night.

I came home early that weekend from Chicago,
saw her feral hands clasp your jagged gasps.
The camcorder wasn't the only thing turned on.
I fapped to the tape at least once a week.

I never enjoyed the sound of slapping you.
But what else would we have done for rhythm?
After nights of Neapolitan, vanilla is a prison,
even if French, with flecks of exotic beans.

When you angled the just oiled pistol
and proclaimed "Either we say 'I do',
or I shall have to kill myself."
I thought, "Well, I'm going to miss you."

I do.