POEM: safe as houses

Posted 7 February, 2012 in My poems, New York City, Poetry

safe as houses

seagulls are protesting / in the dawn skies / above the post office

we’re waiting / by the hot dog cart / for our buses to

Baltimore / Pittsburgh / Boston / Washington

it’s cold enough to snow / but the young Australian / is wearing an open / denim jacket / over a t-shirt

trying not to shiver / as he discusses college / with an Asian woman /
who has a British accent

no one knows where to stand / for which bus / so the affable coffee drinker / in his knit cap / says “Boston” / over and over again / to each person who approaches

the ride from Brooklyn / to Manhattan / was stereotypical / of the kind of New York / you don’t really see these days

vomit on the A train / (twice) / the smell of sewage / rising like a physical presence / from the grates in the street

that said / New York is cleaner now / safer / in every sense of the word

you can’t imagine the Velvets / blasting into the world / with this New York / as a launching pad

not when Katy Perry / stands five stories tall / in Times Square / next to an illuminated M&M

POEM: listening to Tom Waits’ Small Change

Posted 29 January, 2012 in Music, My poems, Poetry

listening to Tom Waits’ Small Change

you’re sleeping close to me
holding one of my hands
in both of yours
there’s a candle on the dresser
another on the night table
a third behind the two Buddhas
on my map, our rivers
don’t meet anywhere
which just goes to show
it’s worth getting out
to see for yourself
the mapmakers can get it wrong
there could be just one big river
right off the edge of the page

POEM: sweet violence

Posted 13 January, 2012 in My poems, Poetry, Politics & Activism

sweet violence

can come with an open hand
or at the tip of a sharp tongue
it covers up the salty taste of tears
you call me “sweetheart” afterward
I can’t think of anything to say during dinner
that won’t sound like a lie
later, in bed, you lace your fingers in mine
I hold my breath like a condemned prisoner
my hair is turning gray on this diet of ashes
my tongue lies heavy in my mouth
I’m betraying the fading light beneath my skin

/ / /

It’s been a while since I finished a poem. I wrote this one at the Museum of Modern Art in New York today after seeing the “Sweet Violence” exhibit for the second time. Please go see it if you can.

POEM: sing me a Haitian song

Posted 20 December, 2011 in Jazz, Music, My poems, Poetry

Photo source

sing me a Haitian song

sing mules and horses on the mountainside
          a calabash of river water to wash in
          another to drink

sing to me of the climbing tree
          four uncles on the summit waiting
          for the return of the prodigal nephew

sing me an African rhythm
          drawn from the source of the one true river
          that became the ocean and surrounded the islands

sing to me of proud women with straight backs
          burdens atop their heads as they appear and disappear
          on the peaks and in the valleys

sing me a policeman’s song
          a wide-brimmed hat his badge of office
          his horse weary from climbing

sing me a Brooklyn dance, no music but the drum
          to remake their lost island in an old meeting hall
          filled with vegetable stew and mountain stories

sing me sixty-odd years since then
          the boy once mesmerized by the drummer
          returning to old ground as a man of the drum himself

/ / /

This poem is inspired by an interview I conducted with drummer Andrew Cyrille. You can hear the interview here.

POEM: post office, Sunset Park

Posted 16 December, 2011 in My poems, Poetry

post office, Sunset Park

digging on Mississippi John Hurt
the definite article
watching a guy try and fail
to zip his leather jacket

Italian-American bus driver tells
African-American postal clerk
he’s looking for Tony Bennet stamps
“I’m still stuck with these Kwanzaa stamps.”

“Lucky for you it’s Kwanzaa again.”
          Laughter.
Mississippi John Hurt is singing about
fish and money. But not really.

POEM: Orion on Prospect Avenue

Posted 13 December, 2011 in My poems, Poetry

Orion on Prospect Avenue

sharp sword dangling from his belt
swinging back and forth
above the Chinese grocery
the Middle Eastern restaurants
the yarn shop with its scarves-to-be

I’m walking up the hill wondering
just how far away those stars are
I know they’re not even near one another
Orion is a picture people made
from a story they invented

the cold, cloudless night
makes the hunter’s broad shoulders
stand out above the Catholic church
where tomorrow’s worshipers
will gather to hedge their bets

a little farther up the hill
is a three-story brick building
where rice is cooking and curry
with potatoes and carrots and onions
is bubbling on the stove

meanwhile the hunter stalks the avenue
in a city where people seldom look up at the sky