THE EMPRESS OF HIGH DESIRE

(For Yen)

Call her an electric currency.

Imagine a banknote
high as her cheekbones.

Yearn to say grace in Cantonese.

Not before an ordinary meal,

but before lips full as ripe fruit.

Say the tongue dreams
of tasting her oranges,
freshly peeled. Dreams
they say pluck me in Mandarin,
of softly circling a Navel.

The flesh pulses with Blood
anticipating a touch.

What does she deal
if not a high card narcotic ?
Call her addiction (opiate):

watch her smile blossom

wide as the petals of Poppies.

I cannot box, but will rebel

if denied these endorphins.

Intervene S'il vous Plait.

I'll relapse into a dream

of her slender fingers.

I bend like a card

marked by a yearning:

Wash me face down,
shuffle me by hand, I beg.

In Other News

OK, here's a version of a crazy poem I was playing around with. The actual poem has a slightly different layout, but I don't think this blog format will display it properly. Lots of punning and tangential leaps, a few jokes and lines I thought might be clever. I guess it's a love poem of some sort.

OF HER MAPLE SERIF

A sign of

Love's liquid change

molecular letters

stated symbolically

buy a drunken tattoo

a tavern cryptograph ≠ a bar code

scanned lines numbered

Sin, Neck, Dough, Key

of lips radiating red

of hot fingers on a cool palm

excited now as though

she wasn't a complete tease

the hand covering her mouth

a stone bluff ?

Overhanging. A sticky desire.

To be called ?

Let us sing a new song

LANDSCAPE WITH MELODY

(B-Bop Solo # 3)

Her voice

rides a breeze,
her song washes
like eternal waves,
(although sea water
and the salt of sorrow
may be too married.)
Medleyed with a morning sun,
her tone tracks the heart's arc.
Since all that would elevate
fear what falling might follow,
she is careful,
sings of descent first,
is cautious with what
she allows to be heard
in the harmony.
And we wonder
what price of translation
she pays, as she sings
in a voice that is naked
and slowly utters
every word
by barefoot
word.

Her voice is more searchlight
than song, splashes dunes
with waves of something
wilder than water.
Her lyrics are a people's sighs
medleyed with moonlight,
a sound like whales exhaling.
Since tears shine,
what saline struggle
she's tasted illuminates her,
reflecting what
traces of grace
she may have seen
in the foam swirling
across what beach she walks.
She knows the sea and sorrow
sing in the same key,
but chooses to listen
to what the tide
utters in the interim,
word by rising word.

(For Cesaria Evora)

Morning in America

"This victory alone is not the change we seek, it is only the chance to make that change."

Past all the symbolism and the emotional import of last night remains the fact that this man is the real deal. Like the Tiger Woods of politics, not just I think in his appeal, but in his sheer ability to perform under pressure and get the job done. I am not often impressed, but last night watching that speech I was about as impressed as I have ever been by a politician. I loved the way he used the quote above to switch the tenor of his speech and deal with the reality of the situation we face. May god bless Barack Obama and god bless the United States of America. (Yeah, I'm a non-theist, but so what)

Stop me before I hurt myself

Jesus, I don't know where this is coming from, but it's soothing as new rain.

GAIN
for X-tina

The best part is when I think
she hears my voice…

an earth-brown sound—pure rumbling
grainy as groundnut shells.

Last night I dreamt up volumes
with velvet ridges—

spinning, metal knobs for
when she is alone

and it seems, almost—
She wishes I were a knee-high boot,

so she can feel my tongue
along her legs.

Eavesdropping

A SIMPLE QUESTION

Is there a ticket into the reserved seats,
The roped off balcony in your head above
The quirky movements of the orchestra?
What can be read in the sheet music
Of your half-smile with its curling clefs;
An ancient oboe brooding in shadows
Or an internal organ piping its blues
Into your blood's oceanic motion?
Doesn't a subliminal sonata
ripple through this moment's facial flicker,
Coding your face's random freckles
Like a bowl of bruised bananas
Sporting spotted notes below attached stems:
Secret notation of the unsung soul?

Dreaming

LUCKY LADY

I wax for your witching eyes when the moon
Mints its shiny coinage high in the sky –
When the black chips of midnight and its boon
Of bright stars are flung nigh like dotted dice.
The dozing sun reclines in Jackpot dreams—
All the slotted machines flashing red lights
As their trays are heavied with coins in streams
And your eyes waxing now, like mine, excite.
For some coins are cool circlings of silver
Wagered on the green tables of a dream,
A smile pressing the next bet. In this room
Where one awaits embrace: a flicker
Of fluorescence kisses quick. Sudden gleam
Of subtext; a winning wink of the moon.

Status Update

Every once in a while as a poet you produce a poem that you feel like you didn't really write, but instead just happened to be holding the pen while it came through you. Below is one of the those kinds of poems for me, like all the technical aspects were internalized and I was just spouting pure poetry. It may be the fastest I've ever written any poem. I'm sure it can use some polishing, but there's plenty of time for that. Anyway . . .

[Untitled]

Once I was homeless
staggering down dark hallways
to snore in a sterile stairwell
where I dreamt your lips
kissing along my collarbone.
In the dream
your voice is cashmere
brushing my earlobe,
girlish and high
as Barbies on a shelf.
The curve of your spine
makes the small of your back
a jewelry box.
Like a snake, my tongue
can taste what will moisten
when I release its secret latch
and finger the velvet lining.
I have fallen down
enough bushy hillsides
to know how water
shimmers into a pool below.
I trace my name
in the sheen
on your inner thigh
Doesn't the forecast
of the first gasp
call for a firestorm in the brain
followed by a heavy downpour,
then the slow rhythm
of bright beads dripping
from eucalyptus leaves?

I have heard
that after the Autumn Equinox
you become Persephone
white knuckling the rail
of a long escalator
into a dark depression.
If, as we lay tangled as strands
of just washed hair
I held up a sliver of mirror
to reflect your laughter,
would it be sunlight enough
to seed the ceasing
of your smallest sorrows?

Or would it suffice
if you knew now
that last night
I slept again in a stairwell,
wrapped tight in the ragged
overcoat of my imagination
and felt the soft feet
of a nude descending
the staircase of my spine,
that her lips wore only a light gloss,
that this creaking morning
I'll stagger and stumble still,
but wearing her lip prints
like a necklace of light
whose gauzy glow hallows
whatever ground I cross?

Nude descending the staircase of a spine

Once again, the view from the curb. The whizzing and splashing and passing of tires adorned with shiny rims and women's feet, in knee high boots, bopping past you into forever. (The refrain is from 'True' by Spandau Ballet)

SWAN SONG

The logic of your neck is fuzzy
The fuzziest peaches tender scented
the tender flesh, most willing
willingness wells like ocean waves
the wave and beach involved in a bite
the softest bite somehow best

I know this much is true

It would be Monday with a muted trumpet
there would be a piano flickering
your fingers across ticklish keys
the mood almost aquamarine
a Flamenco is scantily sketched
a solo dance, then a sigh
the trumpet blows air kisses:
the last kiss is pianissimo

I know this much is true

The kisses now miss your neck
The neck of logic isn't long enough
I long for a tongue, fuzzy as the sun
the sun sinks into the ocean's mouth
the mouth says goodbye with a thousand waves
waves won't cleanse the memory of your scent

I know this much is true

Caramel cameos

Found a new muse, gonna follow her where ever she leads. Messing around with some haiku, senryu, pseudo-haiku and micro-poems. Need to get back to reading poetry everyday, whether I write that day or not. Anyway . . .

My thumb
parsing the soft parts-
of her peach

Lost, I feel
the trunk of her leg-
this moistness, moss?

The ocean's salty
tongue laps the brown lips
of the beach

fondling her ear
she licks her lips-
starshine

As I decide-
the waves race up the beach
and back down

On Love and Anger

Consider a clenched fist,
a flared nostril.
An expletive salting
the afternoon air.

Or a cashmere caress,
lips wet on a neck.
A whisper's velvet whirl
into an ear.

Two streams cascading
down different sides
of the same mountain.
Same fluid clarity.
Same foam
surging over
whatever lies
in the creek bed,
stirring turbulent reflections.
Who among us can bathe
and remain unswayed?

MELANCHOLY IS THE NEW ROMANCE

OK so here's a new sonnet, unrhymed, on an old topic. Still not sure about the title, but I'm just gonna let it marinate for now. I've got some interesting ideas for the next one, let's see if I can pull them off.

Sonnet #4

Are some things we resolve to sip simply
insoluble in sunlight or shadow,
solid as the oft denied dynamic
of sparkling hope fizzing in a fine glass?
The liquor of her laughter at my feat;
a jazz riff of ancient vintage on the
variable nature of our values
or a spinning record of our discord?
After she left, I arose, reeking of
the expensive perfume of high regret,
hearing hardy queries, old equations
in the new guise of Mile's muted trumpet.
Haunted by the inch of apricot wine
in the champagne flute of her parting smile.

Looking back, looking forward.

I wrote the following poem years ago, it was in my book '4,000 Shades of Blue' as well as on my CD 'LibationSong,' but I was never quite happy with the ending. I'm not one of those poets who won't revise a poem after they publish it, for me poems are often living, breathing things that grow over time. I've been known to continually revise and re-publish poems. Here is what I think is this poem's true ending, the one I lacked the skill to find almost 12 years ago.

SOLO (IN THE KEY OF NICOLE)

She’s Miss Sweet Potato Brown
a steamy statuette
with caramel-colored eyes.
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 drugstores
and desperately undress all the chocolate bars.
Though she refuses all flowers
and will not hold my hand
she sleeps with me in a heavy sweater
as though almost afraid of the cold.
But it’s not until morning
over raspberry tea, that I read
in the lines around her half-smile
that she’s haunted passion’s alley
and searched through all the cans
but finds herself still hunting
with heavily soiled hands.

Mixing mortar, baking bricks

Here's another try at the sonnet. This one is kind of special for me, been trying to write a poem for/about Phyllis Hyman for almost 12 years. I grew up with her younger brothers and sisters (she was eleven years older than me) and met her once in Union Station in DC. She was in line in the Food Court and I happened to be behind her and recognized her, she was dressed down and had just got off the train from NYC. We talked for about 15 minutes after we got our food, she was so fine and sweet and super quick and very real. Then she was gone.

NIGHT TRAIN
for Phyllis Hyman

What distant cry is this, whose rising moan,
whose flurry fleet of turquoise colored notes
caress the dark arms of the air? Then floats
and trails, rippling like scales or silver stones
awash and polished in a sonic stream
that cocks the head and taps the tempted toe.
Wends sibilant seduction in its flow,
vanishing towards the dawn like a dream.
Your bluesy whistle, hi-hatted with flair,
once also kissed the naked neck of night.
Improvised in the heat of harmony
it rose, a soft solo of hard blown air
dipping, fluttering, almost like a kite
held fast by cords, that somehow floated free.

I'm pretty happy with this version (Many thanks to Kevin Simmonds for his clear eye and sage advice), This poem probably needs to be recited from memory, rather than read off the page. I used to perform almost all of my poems from memory, but then again I used to dunk too. My dunking days are definitely over, but I can still memorize poems, it just takes work now, whereas before I would just remember them with no effort. I wish there was an open reading here in AC where I could go to try out some new stuff, maybe I'll trek into Philly to hit at one of the spots there.

Oh Happy Day

For a long time I've wanted to write a good sonnet. Lately some conversations on the Cave Canem Listserv got me to make some more attempts. I'm going to try to write five and see if any are worth keeping. Here is my first offering.

SONNET #6

The incense twists smoke into holy swirls,
cursive words written by a rising heat.
My fingers read the scripture of your curls,
looping in rhythm to a ballad's beat.
The night air darkens into a breeze, deep
and fragrant as a half-sipped glass of wine.
The ocean rocks our neighborhood to sleep,
though a shrouded moon seems too shy to shine.
Your shoulder is soft as a ripened plum,
warm as water in which we soon will bathe.
With quickening rhythm, our torsos drum
a hymn that crests like the peak of a wave.
Was any gospel writ on sheets so wet?
We pant in silence, drenched in sacred sweat.

Homage to my Old Town

IF ANYONE ASKS

I'm from houses on hillsides,
rivets in bridges and a tunnel's
dark mouth. From tiny rivulets
spilling into rivers trey or
the spray behind the Good Ship Lollipop.
From fragrant trees lining
a double-wide Shadyside boulevard,
a group of students earning
the steep grade of Mountain Ave.
or a back alley's cobblestone truth.
I'm from snow caps on city steps,
ice floes from bank to bank,
and rock salt crunching underfoot.
From behind Isaly's deli counter,
under the Kaufmann's clock,
pinned by a green pickle.
I'm from Falling Water and
Rolling Rock. From hoagies,
pierogies and chipped chopped ham.
From charred on the outside,
but ruddy on the inside.
I'm from a fountain that billows
at the confluence of dirty work,
clean sweat and hard desire.
From inclined rails slanting above
an abandoned warehouse and
the creaking descent of a cabled car.
From a furnace's 20 ft. flames
and a cauldron's white hot hiss.
I'm from triangular towers
and plate glass cathedrals,
from soot staining
forty-two Neo-Gothic stories,
and still stinging eyes downwind.
From Penn's woods and
Mr. Roger's neighborhood.
I'm from an arm that rifles
balls from the right field wall,
from the spittle jarred
by a hard tackle and the crust
of blood on a busted lip.
From a rusted trolley car
and a tugboat bullying a barge.
I'm from below the skull's hard hat
and above a skeleton of girders.
From the bluff over the river,
the gorge beneath the span,
the mist off the lock and dam.
I'm carried by a current

that courses hard
through the valley
of the shadow of steel.

Final Answer?

Looks like we might have a winner. After sleeping on it I settled on this version.

LASH DANCE

Your eyelids frame your
eyes and punctuate a question.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set against dark chocolate,
whose taut pupils decline to instruct, like
shells revealing, then concealing.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp jangles, quick as covert
glances, or eyelids flashing. One
cannot ignore this rhythm, I almost
seem to surmise a pattern.
To a curious lover, aren't blinks a
crack in the body's remorseful code?

But then recanted and switched to this;

LASH DANCE

Her lashes fly above her
eyes and punctuate a query.
Are they spilling secrets? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose taut pupils almost instruct, like
shells revealing, then concealing.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp jangles, quick as covert
glances, or eyelids flashing. I
cannot ignore these rhythms that
seem to surmise a pattern.
To an anxious lover, isn't any blink a
crack in an unremorseful code?.

After Pablo

This is my own translation of one of my favorite Neruda poems "Tu Risa"

YOUR LAUGHTER

Withhold bread from me
if you wish,
withhold even the air, but
do not hold back your laughter.

Do not withhold that rose,
the flower you pluck,
your joy bursting forth like water,
a sudden wave of silver
born of you.

My struggle is hard
and I return at times
with tired eyes,
having seen an earth
that will not change,
but on its entry,
your laughter
rises to the sky
in search of me,
opening all the doors of Life.

My love, in the darkest hour
your laughter blossoms
and if you suddenly see
my blood staining
the street's stones,
laugh, because for my hands
your laughter
is like a new sword.

Near the sea in Autumn
your laughter must lift
its cascade of foam,
and in the Spring, love,
I wish for your laughter
like a flower on which
I was waiting,
the blue flower, the rose
of my land echoing.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
at the crooked streets
of this island,
laugh at this clumsy boy
who loves you,
but when I open my eyes
and close them,
when my steps leave,
when they return,
withhold from me bread,
air, light, or even Spring,
but never your laughter,
for I would expire.

Revising What's Wrong

The problem with the previous poem "What's Wrong" is that both poems are saying the same thing, in pretty much the same way. I have to figure out what would make for good/interesting relationships between the two. Not sure yet. But the above isn't working, that much is clear. Maybe one is an open question, addressed by the other. I have to think more about the Tension/Resolution aspect of this.
Below find a second attempt. The poem is a quotilla where the seed phrase can be read down the left-hand margin.


Your almost grin teases the
eyes like a full-lipped optical illusion.
Are you bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose steep angle tantalizes.
Shells and a tiny ball moving.
My questions pierce like a wind chime's
sharpest notes. Quick
glances rich as sips of Merlot,
cannot help provoking the palate. You
seem almost indecipherable. But,
to a cryptographer, isn't any expression a
crack in the body's code?

This isn't so much a revision as an almost total re-write. I like the second one much better,but still don't know that the two poems do different work.

Here the next version, with revisions:

Your almost grin frames your
eyes like a full-lipped optical illusion.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose steep angles tantalize.
Shells and a tiny ball moving.
My questions pierce like a wind chime's
sharpest notes. Quick
glances rich as sips of Merlot,
cannot help provoking the palate. They
seem almost indecipherable. But,
to a cryptographer, isn't every blink a
crack in the body's code?

Better, but now the central metaphor is mixed. So, let's fix that.

Your eyelids frame those
eyes like a full-lipped optical illusion.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose steep angles tantalize.
Shells concealing a tiny ball.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp notes, rapid as my
glances, melodious as sips of Merlot.
Cannot any code be undone? You
seem almost indecipherable. But,
to a cryptographer, isn't any blink a
crack in the body's code?

Progress, but still not home. let's try this:

WHEN YOU GRIN

Your eyelids frame your
eyes like a full-lipped optical illusion.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose steep angles tantalize.
Shells concealing a tiny ball.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp notes, rapid as these
glances, rich as sips of Merlot.
Cannot any code be undone? You
seem to almost have a secret. But,
to a cryptographer, isn't any blink a
crack in the body's code?

Closer, but let's set up the last two lines a little better by introducing the idea of blinking eyes earlier in the poem.

WHEN YOU GRIN

Your eyelids frame your
eyes like a full-lipped optical illusion.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose steep angles tantalize.
Shells concealing, then revealing a tiny ball.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp notes, rapid as these
glances, rich as sips of Merlot.
Cannot any code be undone? You
seem to almost hide a secret. But,
to a cryptographer, isn't any blink a
crack in the body's code?

I'm still unhappy with the fact that both poem's themes are the same. I 'm going to try to re-work the ending.

WHEN YOU LAUGH

Your eyelids frame your
eyes like a full-lipped optical illusion.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose taut pupils tantalize.
Shells concealing, then revealing a tiny ball.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp notes, rapid as these
glances, rich as sips of Merlot. I
cannot ignore the rhythm. I
seem to almost hear a secret.
To a cryptographer, aren't blinks a
crack in the body's Morse code?

Maybe there's something here, let's tweak it a bit.

WHEN YOU BLINK

Your eyelids frame your
eyes, punctuating a question.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose taut pupils refuse to instruct.
Shells conceal, then reveal tiny balls.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp notes, rapid as covert
glances, rich as sips of Merlot. I
cannot ignore the rhythm. I
seem to almost surmise an answer.
To a lover, aren't blinks a
crack in the body's remorseful code?

This almost looks like a keeper. Maybe a slight adjustment here or there.

ON BLINKING

Your eyelids frame your
eyes, punctuating a question.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose taut pupils refuse to instruct, like
shells concealing, then revealing tiny balls.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp jangles, quick as covert
glances, or eyelashes dancing. One
cannot ignore the rhythm. I
seem to almost surmise a pattern.
To a curious lover, aren't blinks a
crack in the body's remorseful code?

ANOTHER POEM ABOUT HER

The following poem is my first attempt at an idea that I think has great promise. The poem is a quotilla where the seed phrase is also an original poem of mine. It's a haiku like micropoem that reads "Your eyes are almonds whose shells my sharpest glances cannot seem to crack." What I'm going to try to do here is to leave all the drafts posted, so there will be a paper trail of the revisions. The initial version is below.

WHAT'S WRONG

Your eyebrows arch. But those
eyes brown as groundnut shells
are what stun, like almost
almonds set in dark chocolate.
Whose polar stare have you stolen?
Shells of Brazil nuts aren't tough as
my questions seem for you. The
sharpest barb I could shoot
glances off. Its point
cannot pierce your porcelain mask, you
seem so sullen, I struggle
to discover what could
crack the code of your mood.