If all the lights blow out,
could we repair the sky?

Fastening the odd velvet
to the outer atmosphere 
with tacks shaped like stars,
it was all ours
like a hair-breath,
like a lost ring from a telephone.

But, all alone,
I did sew up the bits 
of invisible clouds
with silver thread

And as I rest my head
upon your chest
for a short rest,
the horizon
began to bleed
orange and red.

I woke up in the morning fog,
sweet and fragrant 
like berry-green; 
the sheen 
of the twisted, 
black-barked tree
blocked the perfect view

Of me and you
kissed by the sun,
and the loose, invisible 
silver threads 
are hidden in the queue

In the sky,
vast & unending
like love should be,
like a strong tree
growing in the green, 
above the blue seas,

Below the sky,
we could fly
in our minds,
and repair the cracks
no one else could see.

If all the lights blow out,
could we repair the sky?

This is where the
East and West Sides
collide into one,
sharp bow tie,
where Broadway
first kisses Madison,
as nomads wander
in NoMad,
shaking off the spells
cast by their workdays

I shared the handle bar
on the R
with two Tibetan monks
wearing robes of 
maroon and saffron;
they smiled and stopped talking
as I tried to stand past,
but the Brooklynites
heading home to Bay Ridge
were all in the way.

I made promises
I had to break
long, long ago, under 
the shadows of the
mighty Flatirons;
oh, the stories 
they could tell…

I remember us here,
eating empanadas 
at Sophie’s on 23rd St.
not so long ago,
when things were
so much simpler, 
before jobs became careers,
before walks became walkabouts,

Before there was  
just the two of us,
against the world,
taking pictures of buildings 
between the West and East 
Side, almost effortlessly,
making fun of the suit-wearers
and their bow ties,
as they try to let off
some stream
(once bending the old irons)
after work.

As I gazed at Anthony’s
extensive DragonballZ
figure collection 
(among the fun ones
from the Marvel,
DC Comics, Star Wars
and the Ninja Turtles’universes),

I remembered my dream last night;
how all the lights divided
into bright, colorless beams of light,
how those flashes expanded
and laced onto each other,
into a giant, white basket 
around my bed.

It wasn’t frightening;
it was warm and soothing 
as the darkness slowly bled into nothing.

A sudden shift of perception,
too small to be noticed
by everyone else,
had taken place right then.

The onslaught of colored
plastic figurines 
(how could Anthony afford all this?)
was a cool distraction 
from our regular work for a while,

As I stepped away,
white ribbons of light
burned in my brain,
& they remained 
as a flash
of inspiration;
hopefully not an omen
of death, but of life….

Everyone in the know
knows, those who live
up here in Riverdale,
Menchie’s is where
everyone here goes:

Yankees fans after Bat Day,
hurried dads in the Kosher tradition,
cool, hip, young assholes 
making fun of a mom
their own age,
parallel-parking her
white Dodge SUV
perfectly at the corner,
Asian and Greek families
(mostly of girls, who IPhone video with their pals: “We’re at Menchie’s!);
a grown-gay son auditioning
at a play downtown this week,

And me and him,
who’s complaining 
of a brain-freeze headache;
he’s too nervous about 
being chosen for a trial
while on jury duty this week.

Ah, lawyers are
no longer exempt,
like the rest
of us shmucks.

Buck up,
my lonesome cowboy,
we all get to 
do this shit,

But for now,
please enjoy the
the pink-bricked apartment
buildings behind sunglasses,
the birds dive-bombing
in the sky,
the elder ladies muttering 
about politics,

Darling, this is
a good day;
the pineapple sorbet 
is so fresh… 

The hum inside
often gets silenced
by accident;

just a common distraction

To feel inside 
is not easy
but it’s sometimes

like tasting rare meat
covered in garlic salt
and black pepper,
not a usual treat

For the poor,
except when the
blood comes,
then it’s a
necessary evil.

If you will
pour me a glass
of Roja,
so I can close my
eyes & imagine

That I’m in Argentina,
feasting as the 
tango dancers shake,
while the violins start to hum.

A brief rest from moving
to the second floor,
before their lunch
and after ours

After introductions
were made,
we discussed many
vintages of wine
while gunpowder green tea
was brewing

My friend’s son
just graduated from
culinary school,
he talks of wine and teas,
so a spontaneous 
tea ceremony begins

Her mother,
visiting from Ecuador,
was so lovely.
I want to see her house
in Quinto one day

The tea showed us
several colors and flavors
during the three tastings.

One, smoky and metallic,
like pennies on the tongue

Two, more like spring,
a certain grass, maybe

Third, wet, mellow,
traces of shaved almond.

Amazing, what different
worlds one can find
in a tiny cup,
three times.

Before the new faucet
was chosen and brought
after much deliberation,
I saw him at 59th and 3rd.

He almost didn’t
recognize me in
my old sunglasses;
he said I looked like
Elton John

My new dress
is short, 
a red, loose-fitting cotton
marked with white
flowers and birds.

It felt like summer,
before girls
had to wear bras
(but not now)

Strutting eastward
on 59th
like a socialite 
lost from the Hamptons,
it was like easy living
before Monday’s grind

(and it would be nice
if we would have a
working faucet 
before our vacation)

The dog days
of summer 
are still present,
even with 
new appliances 
and dresses
to distract us.

Making up for lost time yesterday,
I stopped almost dead
after 8000 paces;
after consuming a salmon Benedict 
and two helpings of mixed greens,
I pick out my mint leaves 
from my Caribbean mule 
and crushed them between my teeth,
as I spied with my little eyes
the other beautiful people
in the French cafe on Sixth Avenue,
celebrating their birthdays…

I still have ways to go
before the storm starts.

We didn’t visit his house yesterday;
every time I go there with him
I’m in between-times,
seeing souvenirs from the past,
and my first memories of knowing him,
and possible futures, the parties
held there with loved ones,
now here and those maybe in-waiting,
the babies coming thanks to 
his siblings, all singing
the old songs around the table.

But when I visit the house presently,
I feel out of step, as if the
between-times are too near
to touch, or to reach,
which makes reality sometimes 
both boring and confusing.

Why do I feel this way?

He is now well-dressed 
due to his mother’s dictations,
yet today they are too busy 
with other things to visit,
so we go home after rehearsal 
at the Temple,
one hour traveling for a 45-minute
the songs are coming through,
and the times are often changing,
here and between every single line.

I wonder how
all these threads
of humankind 
weave into each other,
like distant characters 
written for the same novel,
and as the plot thickens,
all the colors run together,

Or, a singular note,
starts a fugal phase,
which begins to change
the tonal quality 
within a symphony,
you can still sing the theme
that first note helped to make.

Each good deed 
and kind word
forms an attachment
one can’t live without.
What is it you need?
and have you heard…
the sweetest intentions 
whispered into a shout.

What will happen 
to us in 10 years or so?
For many of us,
we will never know…

Until that day,
when our threads finally fray,
let’s say we will all be loved 
because each of us
is a singular note in the world’s
longest-playing symphony,
and a thread 
in a galaxy-large tapestry.