I was meant to live

Mornings with a coffee mug in hand

And a cigarette clenched between fingers

Unsteady, thoughts

Rolling like a pinwheel in the wind  

The sun rays – golden locks of Adonis –

 Leak lazily, like rivulets in a river

Outside my window pane

But I was meant to live

Among fresh flesh and sweat,

Brushing against heavy hearts,

Like gaits in an empty cellar –

With an agitated moth in my chest,

Like a fly in the web

I was meant to live

In cities that palpitate like thunder,

Wild with desires that wane

Like the hands of a clock

Desperate to retain dreams

That scatter like puzzle pieces,

And decompose like dead matter

I was meant to live

Insipid afternoons in bed

Carving my shape in sheets

Smearing pillows with tears,

Eating crackers and butter

I was meant to live

Counting hours like failures

Letting days slip like pages

Of frustrated books

I was meant to live

And dance in empty spaces

Of adopted homes

Drunk on red wine

And mac n’ cheese

I was meant to live

Smudging red lipstick on crooked lips

Wearing boots that say fierce

Confusing style with attitude,

Attitude with pride,

Pride with courage,

Courage with strength

I was meant to live

And wake up on mornings

With a coffee mug in hand

And a cigarette clenched between fingers

Moon Sorrows

How lovely the moon in times of loneliness. How comforting the swollen moon, bright and bare, floating in the deep dark pond as if it knew how not to drown, resisting being swallowed by the black vortex, always with poise and glory. Should I know how, too? Should I know how to be beautiful when the face of pain looks its worse? Or do your craters, gray like ash, resemble millenniums of learning how to cope? Should I know how not to be swallowed by deplorable loneliness, or does it swallow you too? Does it swallow you little by little?  Full, half, crescent, full – should I know how to be full again, too? Should I have known not to rely on those that made me think I could rely, or did you think you could too when that star sat next to you last week, and when the clouds hugged you last night? Did you know they wouldn’t tonight? Should I have known that too? Should I have known that loneliness is more devout and faithful than friendship, and that, although it sometimes strays… sometimes… it never forgets its way home? Should I have known that I would have to shine despite there being no one’s path to pave? Like those that were guided by your light tonight, but didn’t stop to look whose light they followed. Should I know how, too?  

No one stopped to look at the moon that night. She felt an irresistible urge to stop the next passerby and say “look at the moon,” but would they understand? And more importantly, would she have the courage? She smoked her cigarette, as her eyes tried to penetrate the copper outline of her lonely companion. She reveled so deeply in her thoughts that they bounced from the walls of her mind, forming rippling echoes of hollow noise. “Loneliness, loneliness, loneliness” they whispered. The moon seemed to muster an ancient tune, an ancient thunder. Her heart pounded like drums, the wind fueled the embers of centuries, and blew the flutes of gypsies.

“Loneliness,” she thought.

“Strength,” mustered the moon. 

 

City Mornings

I like the morning city

With its crisp clean air

Like the smell of ammonia

On hospital walls

The sky, pristine porcelain

Blue – cool like fresh waters –

And clouds that glimmer white

Like the marble floors of corporate

Buildings

The city morning

Metropolitan bustle is like a

Nostril whistle

Of a dormant giant

That wheezes indolently,

Sways steadily

Like the dozing eyes

Of crack crooks

Dope dealers

Maryjane junkies

Heroin hustlers  

That sing on subway stations

With coors cans

On both hands,

Their nodding heads swerving

To the rust track rhythm

Of machinery

Good morning! We are Bronx bound

And inert, rocking in our seats

Like babies on cradles

Our eyes heavy,

Swollen,

Dark like our bodies

And our language

Our heads turned aside

So as not to smell

Touch, see ourselves

In others

Our reflections, weary –

Tremulous – carved

On the window

Panes

And outside, the tracks

Churn their steel

The tunnel walls – agitated –

Furiously rush past

Like film reel,
Memories or time

I like the morning city

And its feigned frailty

Its dainty innocence

Like a crystal ball

But you’ve swallowed us

Pure, and spat us

Raw

Where have my words gone?

I’ve let them run

Like wicked children

And I’m a weary mother

Too tired to chase

I’ve followed them

From a distance

My eyes, penetrating the horizon

Where they’re likely to end up

As air

But I don’t trail

I let them run

My sight tires,  

The wind can only carry my voice

So far

Then, I know I’ve lost them

Then, I wish they’d return

But I’ve let them run 

Van Cortland Park

I sat before the shrine

Of perfection

Mother –

The spirit of life –

Suffused my soul

With piercing splendor

And I wept

Beauty sings to me in slow whispers

Its breath, the smell of fresh waters

Its sight, delicate droplets of rain

Disturbing the stillness of ponds,

Forming bands like halos

The whispers are faraway

Psalms – aged symphonies –  

Journeying with the breeze,

Resting in the breast of a willow

Stretching like the gentle glow

Of a languid sun amidst the desert 

Of the sky

It strikes deep 

Like a terrible harpoon

Sending ripples

Of rapture

And I weep

And I heed you

Out of the darkness

Of my cave

Will sprout life

Out of life

Or I vow to die

Trying

4th of July

Fireworks, like sunflowers

Amidst a hollow sky

BURST like

Bright balloons

Of light

And shimmy golden

Gunpowder,

Slipping softly

On slick air –

A sad

Dance

Of stars.

   

Fading flickers                    on black water

Like                                                      floating                                                candles

Funereal pageant

Of time  

Flicker In the Distance

The tears gather in your eyes

Like a baby in a cradle

As you smoke, sucking slowly –

Puffs collecting into clouds

Of impenetrable gray

In the rim of your mouth –

The edge of your lips

Solemnity

You are like that star

Of shining silver

Flickering on and off

In the distance  

The unattainable glimmer

That one ponders about in

The gut of night  

A mystery made more beautiful

By its secrecy

You sit by the window

Staring at the wall

As if you meant to break it

You are stoic like the statues

Of saints

With that intrinsic nurture,

Indomitable Beauty and perfection

Of pain

That only art can contain

And I sit facing you

Like a peon at the altar –

Small, like a child

In a museum

Distance

The last touch,

The final tangible moments

When the hidden silences,   

The diffidence of love

Becomes feral

In a hug

I smell your hair of soothing lavender

I feel the fabric of your dress

I kiss the dampness of your cheeks

I walk away

At 21 I smoke

The way you taught me

Without knowing

Imitating poses,

Moving to your rhythms,

Staring at the wall

Night crawls like a spider,

The ghosts of memory

Hide beneath the curtains

Of shadows

And I nestle in their pallor,

Tangled in the comfort

Of desolation

I search for residual warmth

Where your head lay like a stone

Upon the pillow, 

A paper clip that you dropped

On the rug

I know that it is not

The wall at all

But the light –

The relentless flicker

In the distance