suffering, the buddhists say, because then we can accept what is, rather than grasping for what is not, gelato in late july, saying thank you and meaning it, crisp sparkling water, watching john travolta in grease, mother teresa, love, being of service, apologizing, peaches in early august, dusk, snow on pine trees, cold lake water, dancing to miriam makeba, sitting silently in a church, being grateful, making a snow angel, dreaming you can fly, deciding to be happy
Category: Poetry
Teenager After Airplane Flight
Don’t call it madness, there is a method, a way to best reconnect with my…..phone. Snapchat photos must be sent to dozens and dozens of people, this proves that i’m alive and have a face, or half a face, depending on my mood. Next, i check snapmaps, see who is alone, who is with others, who is traveling and where. 10 people in one place means a party i wasn’t invited to. That kid is in paris, i’ve never been, jealous, oh well, i will be in greece soon and then they will be jealous, karma. I don’t really know what karma means. Next, birthday wishes via snap messages, shows i care, although, if 80% of the people i snap with showed up at my house i wouldn’t know what to say, i mean, we are friends, sort of. Snapchat update complete, insta time: scroll, photos, videos, pause, beautiful dress, nice nail polish, that cat is so cute, like, like, like. If there is time maybe some tiktok, if not, back to snapchat, repeat, repeat, repeat.
Doo Wop
sing me on street corners under glowing lampposts, harmonizing vocals, black, white, race is no matter, sweet sound knows no color. sing me in philly, in brooklyn, in baltimore, i am your love, your longing, your heartbreak and your joy. a cappella, alive on 45’s and chevy stereos, cruising, because there’s a moon out tonight and life could be a dream. never-ending youth, ephemeral song. doo wop has died, but the music lives on.
Disabled
spondylolisthesis, 4 to 6% of the adult population have it, including me, i want to tell it that i was a once a runner, on trails, on hills, even won a race-in my age category, and don’t forget the hikes, everywhere, usually no less than 10 miles at a time, but it doesn’t care, it likes that i’m 50 and more vulnerable now, i assume that it wants to take over my spine, degenerate me day by day, and there we go, my mindfulness in freefall, pessimism taking over one breath at a time, i thought meditation was preparation for age and lack of movement, but eight hours lying on one’s back on a rug can crush the unenlightened, but to quote frou frou, there’s beauty in the breakdown, going on 13 weeks and yes, more patient, yes, more empathetic, yes, i’m here writing more, so i can’t walk for more than 8 minutes at a time, but i can be a better human being, i’m trying…
Barbie
proportions have been measured, false construct, loved by all, hated by many, icon of what was and will never be, songs sell her, pop is her culture, warhol and gerwig, paint and project her, money made her, throw her away and she comes back, plastic american boomerang, life after death, like monroe, immortal it seems, a dream and a nightmare.
I Am Your Hammer
you have heard the stories about maxwell, john henry, i have killed, driven steel, been a tool of justice, like peter, paul & mary said, some might refer to me as gavel, calling court to session, nails fear me, when i was hank aaron i made pitchers nervous, i show strength at carnivals, i sometimes miss making thumbs change color, you need me for tents to stay grounded, i help penetrate the earth, thor is nothing without me, throw me, hold me, pound me, love me, i am your hammer.
I Am A Cigarette
marlboro red, the name matters, i look cool on horseback, camping, driving a truck, my synonym is man, as in, i will make you a man, your lips like a sturdy red brick chimney, creating fire, man fire, from mouth, into lungs, nicotine is my dirty word, don’t say it, it’s addictive, but i don’t care, i was born to be burned, disposable, like life, yours is mine, eventually.
Meet the Beatles!
john, george, paul, and ringo, peering out of the darkness, capitol records, 1964, my first glimpse of the british sensation, a window into my mother’s 20-something obsession. as a kid how could anyone not love i want to hold your hand? then, 1986, matthew broderick on a chicago float, twist and shout, later, revolver here, there, and everywhere, first snow in early december maine, young love in the air. and i still listen to do you want to know a secret? but it all goes back to my mom playing that album, dancing like the 1960’s never ended.
Camp Counselors At Night
2am and even the mosquitoes are sleeping, but we are still up, campers slumbering in bunk bed cabins with wet towels hanging from wooden pegs, luna moths circling bathroom lights in the distance, the talk goes on and on, 17 year-olds under summer stars in virginia countryside night, sitting on wooden picnic tables, flirting with time and each other, we’ve hit that moment where words don’t matter anymore, just eyes twinkling in the quiet dark surrounded by trees, warm july breeze, daylight will arrive, but not yet, not yet.
I Am A Beer
hold me in a bottle
wrap your fingers around
my label, place me
carefully on a pool table
i help with conversation
will make you a man
give you something to do
wanna grab one of me
after work? sure thing
i invented liquid courage
beer muscles, and who
said you can’t win
with me you will punch
all night, or say hello to
him or her, or that person
sitting over there, don’t
stare too long, drink me
like you mean it
with time, you will
love me, but i’ll
never love you back
