Nimble like deer grazing,
people walk upon the snow
and the traffic shines afar
like fireflies slowly moving
in the bluish mist of early evening;
the naked trees of the park
are black and tangled, showing
the fat flakes off. We tread
into the first snow slowly,
trying to get ahead to where
we are going in 2020.
Blessed by the lazy Saturday,
we snuggle in beds or do chores
as the snow continues on.
She takes her tea with milk
and eats Fruit Loops
every morning
Capable of love,
her muses are taking louder
at 4 am most mornings,
she draws flowers
with a felt-tip pen,
drawing until the kids wake up;
she brews coffee for her hubby
and pours more Fruit Loops
for her family,
dreaming of her gentle blooms
as she’s finishing up the accounts
at work. She wants to draw
over all the uncovered surfaces
of her desk with lilies.
She cannot afford to plant
her own private garden.
A couple of mint plants
flourish in tiny pots
in her tiny Kew Gardens kitchen
making perfect tea
for every morning.
Trying to quiet my mind,
but onions are frying in the kitchen
and he’s playing Ravel on the piano.
It sounds like water flowing—
I wish my thoughts
can sometimes float on the water,
but they stomp around,
trying to dance like lilac elephants
in the jungle; Disney music scores
and well-wishes can’t quiet these
elephants down, they leave
their huge prints behind.
Wherever they go,
I can’t sleep;
others tend to creep
along as if nothing has happened
& the water is in short supply
as the onion smell and piano playing drone on—
Gone are thoughts of forgetfulness,
there’s nothing more, or less.
I stopped by that place
we met years ago for one night
I saw the steps and the cafe
we used to sit, passing the time
until sunrise. But today’s light
made the sights look different.
Alone, I remember your warm hands
as I walked the cobbled streets
Your emotional marble in your head
was so big back then. What happened?
It’s now the Year of the Rat.
You got another woman pregnant
and you must marry her, even though
she doesn’t make your soul sing.
The light has changed everything
but I still feel the same,
a star lost in orbit, searching for a harbor
even if love or the light disappears.
Good women don’t stay silent.
Good women speak up against injustice.
They need to stand up for each other
during the darkest times
of our personal history.
Most women
were taught to remain silent,
even when
the most heinous actions
against them happened,
but no more.
Good women eventually resolve
their differences,
solve their mysteries,
and soothe their traumas,
thanks from help by others.
The cuts will heal with time,
outer and inner wounds will become malleable
and the bad dreams will fade into mist.
Good women deal with bad dreams.
Already flashed my ass on Houston Street today.
(a sweet, elderly, black woman with a walker
mercilessly tugged my skirt down; thank you Ma’am)
before Phil drank his Breakfast of Champions drink
(pineapple juice & vodka)
and signed his new lovin’ coyote book: Hooray the hero!
I already traced my steps before,
to the Library Bar on Ave. A,
trying to remember that magic night years ago
before Sister had a kid,
but the bar looked different in the mid-afternoon light—
It was so empty with dumb-looking hipsters—
and the grocery store across the street
reminded me of the UWS
with its various goat cheeses and specialized sushi—
this is not the LES, man!
Let’s sing of gut sandwiches here and drink Stella in the dark
among dozens of stone-cold groovin’ friends
as New York continues to get real,
dancing between old and the new realities
as our long, black skirts stay up
on a sunny winter’s day
without you noticing (at first).
When evening comes in like a casual bandit,
when the kids fill up on 2nd Ave.,
the new bars here now
are a grey, pale shadow
of the dive bars of the ‘80s,
and more new, soulless glass boxes
are built here, with crippling
rent hikes & mortgages,
shutting down the heart
of the neighborhood,
as Phil’s stories of Blondie & Boho illustrate,
these wild coyotes
still try to survive here,
even in these dark times.
Please wrap me up
in an audio cocoon;
warm my silken threads
by the morning light
as I hear 10 versions
of “Good Morning”
jamming from my
new Skullcandy headphones,
or soothe me to sleep
at midnight;
Cover me
with a dozen curling branches
that sing 10 versions
of “I love you”
as I gently rock
in the tree.
My new wings are still wet
but you can still
hear me sing away—
my chosen lullabies
are tinged with Soul
as my voice
grows into
a deeper chocolate
Nimble like deer grazing,
people walk upon the snow
and the traffic shines afar
like fireflies slowly moving
in the bluish mist of early evening;
the naked trees of the park
are black and tangled, showing
the fat flakes off. We tread
into the first snow slowly,
trying to get ahead to where
we are going in 2020.
Blessed by the lazy Saturday,
we snuggle in beds or do chores
as the snow continues on.
Thomson Ave. is silenced during the morning of Black Friday—only the constant row of cars over Queens Plaza Yards offer any escape and life.
The walking streets by the 7 train are bare; the new skyscrapers shine by the 9 o’clock sun.
I’m the only one at work on time
in Long Island City. No money makes me save like a hoarding dragon—no-go into the stores today.
Must earn my keep after the big family meal; fighting after-effects of wine and sleepiness—must work with silence—
but I love silence. That’s when the ideas come.