Poem for Saturday, August 8th, 2009

Poor Signor Lucci and the Epic Collision

When you're an Italian

         tourist in

America the last thing

         you want to see is

                                      death pre-

sumably but

         that's what they saw

all five of them

Angelo Lucci and his

         bella famiglia (yes

even the dear children)

         were killed in an

epic aircraft collision

                           CRASH

went the helicopter

          into another plane

the propellors sliced

          each other in

utter metallic mutiny

          the Hudson River

became a little dirtier

          engulfing the ash

belching up bodies

Poor Signor Lucci and

          his family are

staring down at us

          with chocolate Italian

eyes (tears flowing in

                                   the Arno)

but

     they are happy

(are they happy?)

     they cheer "Buongiorno!"

(do they cheer "Buongiorno!"?)

     yes, yes

                  they must be happy

but when you're

      a decent American

you must be sad

      for them

Poem for Thursday, August 6, 2009

8/5/09

In an abandoned house
we painted the walls
listened to techno
that was somehow
obnoxious yet soothing
the sound waves glided
off the primer on the
antique paneling

we talked of politics
how everyone here is
afraid of the term
"socialized" (heaven
forbid we do some-
thing as a society)
and then we went outside

the moon--
it was full, distant and white
but just hours before
close and orange
like a celestial tangerine--
that's how I like it
with Mars
plotting to the west
or north
or wherever in
the neutral sky

Poem for Tuesday, August 4th, 2009

Melba

has no idea that I write

poetry

let alone that I am

writing about her

I wonder

if she reads any

if she does

it probably has a uniform

meter and a predictable

rhyme scheme and

was published many

eons ago but so what

the other day

another woman ruined

her morning because she

forgot to bring

her some blackberries

like she promised

Poem for Sunday, August 2nd, 2009

Here's What I'm Feeling

I heard a rumor

that you

have a tumor

                      but

it's only benign

it'll be just fine

(and I could keep

 on rhymin' here, but)

I feel like writing in

free verse and

using big ole words like

"didactical"

(I hate that word)

but

anyway

a friend told me

of this guy

who thought he was

Jack Kerouac

                       he

traveled across

the continental U.S. of

A

(he wasn't oppressed

 enough to be Kerouac)

so my friend and I

laughed at him

over a

         beer

Poem for Thursday, July 30, 2009

As for the subtitles, my German is a bit rusty, so please forgive me.

Invisible Hands

I. Letzter Nacht hat es geregnet.

The rain dots the

concrete, drop

by drop, forming

shapes and continents,

scattering the sediment.

Some invisible hands

are squeezing the clouds

like heavy sponges,

draining life down the

sink onto our earth,

our homes, into our

eager mouths, agape.

This happens through

the muggy dusk and

into the night (those

same invisible hands

have covered our

box with a magician's

black cloak). Look

outside and see the

moon from any direction;

for once, we are

the orbitees.

II. Ich will nicht meinen Traum vergessen.

My final thought

before I awoke this

morning (still streaked

with rain/life from

last night) was the

conclusion to my

peculiar dream;

let me tell you what

happened:

I was circularly pacing

in a small room somewhere

in Munich, Germany.

There was a single

window, and I would

rest my elbows on the

weathered pane and

marvel at the Alps

far, far away. The old

Bavarians would smile

with aplomb and wave

at me as they passed

by in their Lederhosen.

This is all I would do;

I felt neither hunger

nor apathy, but I

could not leave my

small room.

III. Es deckt nicht und alles auf.

The rain evaporates

with the heat,

seeping beneath the

concrete's surface,

skimming past each

shiny granule. How

the sun orchestrates

this is amazing.

I am now

conscious; most

of my dream is

forgotten, fallen

between my synapses

and electrical impulses.

How the brain

orchestrates this is

amazing. What are these

rainy dreams?

Where are these places

we transcend, where

those invisible hands

decide we must traverse

to be praised

or punished?

Poem for Monday, July 27, 2009

Ali's Teapots

number at

4,000

and are made of the

absolutefinestsilver

in the eastern (& perhaps

           western) world

his own son told me

so I know it's so

the glimmering tea-

pots are worth

100,000 riyals (or

60,000 dollars) and

some are over

           a hundred years old

his own son told me

incredible, I know

                            but

what makes them

immaculate is

what's in their

            reflection:

the American

the Arabian

sitting on a couch

laughing as they mis-

pronounce words in each 

others' languages

               and

above that, a

ubiquitous light caught

in a glare      (from the

                       heaven

                       they both

believe in)

Poem for Sunday, July 26, 2009

Poem About a Kite

Well, they shot

           your kite right

out of the sky

           everything they

teach you about

           physics is true

force, acceleration

           gravity & love

           there was a

formation of geese

           early signs of

a mischievous storm

           no trees, though

you were confident

           string in hand

ready to fly, fly

not to

           fall, fall