The Ocean Must Be Broken

The ocean must be broken
It must withstand the kicking
and the beating of the sun
pleading for mercy, as its
pride is stolen, drip by drop
A pride that stretches miles wide
And miles deep, to a floor
revered with awe by mere men
Who never saw but only dream
of the creatures that lurk
in the reaches of its body

The giant sprawls prostrate
Feeble and seemingly alone
Losing its life-blood
Its very heartbeat
And as the stream flows
It channels into a vial
The droplets file neatly into their
proper place, making faces and shapes
But always changing

And when the trial subsides,
And the thief resigns from sight
The shower begins its plight
Giving life like the Rite of Spring
And everything blossoms
Disclosing beauty only explainable
to eyes and not ears
The life-blood fertilizes a seed
into a forest, free and vast
Life to life, and death to life
And death makes life
And with loss, discovery

So kick me and beat me
Break me like the ocean
I’ll tell you no, but I’ll grow
I’ll lose pride that boils in a kettle
Deafening those around
leaving me empty and alone
my life-blood will drip its drops
Until all I can do is stop
Let me see it file into a shape
more beautiful than I saw before
Because my new eyes
are ready for springtime

Lenox Lounge

First steps in Harlem feel frightening,
but as the guitarist of the Nat Lucas Organ Trio
snakes towards me through the crowded bar,
giving birth to a watery solo via wireless pick-up
in a rendition of “It Had to be You,”
Darkness falls and warmth stretches out.
I am standing, bathed in the stripes of the Zebra Room
at Lenox Lounge, the surprisingly famous
jazz club I stumbled into with friends
just a few blocks from our hostel on 128th st.
It was only minutes after I ordered my first
Sugar Hill Ale, a local Harlem brew,
That Carlos, the manager pointed to a booth,
“Billie Holiday used to always sit right there.”
The guitarist gnashes his teeth as he plays,
as if it is a little painful to stroke
the fiery red instrument, which matches his tie.
He strolls back passing the people at the bar.
They stand like as many wild flowers, dark
black coats removed in the heat to reveal
brightly colored scarves and one particularly
blue dress. She is the one dancing with her boyfriend.
They move slowly together, and then accelerate
as he turns her body and she laughs.
The Trio speaks a language I only barely understand,
but thankfully, the sounds are soothing and gentle
to my naked ears.

Marrow sucked the life out of you –

I could not console the
Descent of death;
I did not hold your hand
As chemicals pulsed their way
Through every thriving cell
Poisoning your existence.
I did not watch you lose your hair,
Falling in manes of freshly dyed mahogany tresses.

I could not hold the few feeble strands
clinging to your skull
– as life clings to the soul -
While you purged
Your empty acid – a few sips
Of chicken broth
And unsalted crackers.

Broke you down
Like messy and splintered bones
In dust returning
To the pangs of Birth’s slow murder.

Whole Wide World

Whole Wide World

 

when you’re on your own

the world’s a boulder

rolling, faster than your legs

can carry you alone

 

when change is so

much a mere ideal

with all your strength and mind

you only need let go

 

eyes may drown

life is bleak

don’t dare to draw to close

and let alone let you down

 

there you’ll stand

or kneel, or crawl

and dig your nails into the dirt

and fail as hard as you can

 

in the whole, wide world

the whole,

wide, world.

I take your hand

and feel that it’s warm

warmer than the whole,

wide world

Parkway

Summer sunlight bleeds through an ancient oak tree
Then waltzes with the river across the soft ripples of low-tide river banks.
Radial revolutions leave rubber tread marks
Across soft yellow concrete as I accelerate
Through the colorful deciduous canopy.

Sixty-five approaches with ease as I rise
Above the speed limit.
While—simultaneously—I drop
My hand out the window.
Wind forcing different fingers different ways
I reach down deep and inhale with my mouth.
Summer slowly melts on the back of my tongue.

Seated in a Chair Against the Wall in a Busy Barnes & Noble

Wooden panels line window panes
Casting just enough light to observe
A beautiful collision between tile and carpet

In a room dominated by classics and clearences
I find the perfect spot to combine sweet tea and a mystery
With Faulkner lurking just around the corner

“Buy two, get one free” proclaims a petty effort
To contain a canon in 300 words or less
But the space between anthologies and biographies is always home to me

Intelligence always seems to increase
At the subtle juxtaposition
Of literature and a latte

Customer 1

 

Female. Approximately eight years old. Dirty-blond hair. Green eyes. Kind of sits down when she walks, her toes facing out; might be a dancer. Enters with a matter-of-fact furrowed brow and tight lips, but not angry, and maybe a bit genial; but definitely business. Comes in alone, though sometimes has had accomplices in her company. Varying purchasing habits – anything from bag of Gummy Bears to a pack of USA Gold’s for her father. The manager doesn’t want to waste the sale, and the officers have plenty of more important issues to deal with. Ms. Edna thinks she smokes them herself.

 

Customer 2

 

Female. Must be over 60. Not originally from the area, but she says she likes the stillness of the woods. She’s had a large cabin on the lake for the past two years. Her face is undeniably fake, and probably her breasts too. Walks with her fake nose up and if she is ever so kind to acknowledge those around her, she cocks her head in the two o’clock position with her eyelids almost shut so that she’s looking just over the right side of your head. I’ve heard stories about her from people I trust: she killed her husband and has found this town as a hideaway.

 

Customer 3

 

Male. Unmarried. Teaches ninth grade English. Talks like an English teacher. Helps out with after-school drama program. Went to fancy college. Has a garden. Tries to make garden better than everyone else’s. Everyone knows something is off about him. Some know that he’s gay. Records have been searched about sex offenses, but none found yet.

 

Customer 4

 

Male. Thirteen years old. Mother’s a schoolteacher in town and father left ten years ago. Mother lets him get away with too much. Dresses, talks, and acts disrespectfully. Hangs around with a bad crowd. Needs a father figure. Needs discipline. Buys candy, junk food, and soda. Athletic. Teenage girls are in danger. Burned down abandoned building on Grove last week, but no proof so no retribution.

 

Customer 5

 

Female. Eighteen years old. Blond with familiar face and genuine smile. Family name known throughout town. Plays basketball and sometimes plays with boys; one of the best the town has seen. Might go to the WNBA, which is getting popular these days. Could put us on the map. We’ll always be her biggest fans, except for her dad of course, but she should always remember her roots. That’s what happens to them all – they get too famous and too proud for their own good.

Poem One

Along the Bank of a River

Along the bank of a river, overgrown
with cat tails and ever glades,
your back arched and prickled
growing cool
with the water
as you leapt from the dock.

I followed, screaming,
engulfed by green-
you clasping me tightly underwater
until all I was breathing was
your breath.
Carbon dioxide
fed me life
and we wanted to drown-
floating to the surface, faces
up toward the rays of heat
beating down on us-
we wrapped ourselves in each
other.

In the friendly hours of sunshine,
just you and I
dancing in rhythm with the
pulse of the world’s
turn,
everything else burning in the sun’s
ferocious rotation-
the earth on a skewer,
not yet well done.

Candy-coated lips against lips,
wet and warm and sticky- the leaves clung to you,
to me, their
fragile indentions
a fossil of autumn
on our skin.

But in the cooling breeze
every crackled leaf descended
upon me, like the world was dying.

And we collected our things
to leave.