Morning Beach

The sun had yet to reach its peak

and the Atlantic lapped at my feet,

tickling my sun like an excited dog’s wild tongue.

I strolled, my feet crunching shells,

leaving reminders behind in the sand.

My gaze struck a delicate,

red, and purple scallop shell,

the colors mixing in its grooves,

a majestic castle for a past king.

I reached for it,

my fingertips brushing the rough sand,
and my fist closed around the weathered cup.

Where Were You?

When the ominous clouds began to roll over the skyline,

crying cool droplets,

drenching the three of them

while they stood on the rear deck of the water taxi

their tattered clothes slowly soaking up the rain

the setting sun glowing behind Liberty's silhouette

Where were you?

Were you at home,

checking snapchat every minute

for a new story,

blanky driving through a virtual maze of highways,

with the need for speed?

or were you

just hoping for the repeated vibrations of an incoming call,

and the words

“wanna hang out?”

Robert Fulton (edited)

Brown hair cascades over her shoulders,

like water spilling off a steamboat wheel

her tight striped shirt hugs her,

like her future husband will

her green eyes, murky and mysterious,

like a lazy Louisiana stretch of river

With tiny hands she furiously

jots notes (Robert Fulton-inventor of steamboat)

And now she’s standing on the deck

hair waltzing with the wind,

white dress billowing around her knees.

She smiles, the spray jumps up around her,

the dry sun twinkles off the droplets.

Her wide brimmed sun hat

suddenly is soaring through the sky,

running away along the river.

She laughs because she is happy,

I laugh because I am happy,

the steam streaming behind us.

That Itchy Kind of Towel (not remorse edited)

i want to be the memory

triggered

(like a AK-47)

in her mind

when she unearths

that crumpled photo,

buried under a mountain of

clothes and papers,

when she gazes back into

the green of the grass and the

red of the towel

the itchy kind

her parents hopefully wouldn't

mind getting dirty

her hands in mine

our warmth,

i just want to be the memory

that triggers

a secret grin on her face

Nightwalking

You've stumbled

Through the curtain of night

Tripping over sidewalk cracks

Past the deli owner

Smoking his cigarette, puffing the grey into cool air

Along the nearly empty streets, the occasional car purring by

Headlights piercing the dark cloak

The streetlights blurry and fantastical

Inhaling your shirt to see

If the party had hitched a ride with you

And now you're in bed, 

A swinging cloud, a never ending carousel of blankets

And you lay there, till your brain

Decides it's had enough

American Sentences (more will be added as I think of them)

The rain pours from the skies above but my eyes are only on the screen.

Overweight dads shout at their children, who scamper around the base paths.

Superheroes fight on streets in New York in front of my popcorn eyes.

 Crisp twenties forked over from parents buy cheap vodka on Friday nights.

Riddle

It falls
when prompted by a human
and spins up
when prompted again
sometimes however
the human's beckon
does not result in ascension

Murder (assignment)

When the blade,
the crisp, cool, silver sliver,
has been pressed hard enough
to break through to the other side - the living side
and the warm red
spurts like an Arab oil well
trickles down your arm


a great sense of relief will sweep over you
burying you like a tsunami of sleep
you will be too exhausted for regret
that will come later,
and will stab you in the gut

will wrench out your intestines

but for now 

all there is to do is rest

Pass (Charm Poem)

I slide myself to the edge of my couch
fists squeezed
eyes focused on the bright TV screen
every bated breath edging your
shining, silver Mercedes racecar
another inch closer to the one ahead
every tensed muscle pumping the pistons faster
my furrowed brow
guiding your steering wheel
and holding the pedal to the metal
until you have passed
the bright red Ferrari
in a flurry of sparks and a roar of the engine

Hi

You sit there,
huddled in the corner,
hands wrapped about your knees,
tossed aside, like that Ford GT remote controlled car
with "Working Lights!" and "Longer Distance Driving!"
that I pestered my parents for endlessly
and then sat motionless, collecting dust,
never to do donuts or race wheel to wheel
down cracked sidewalks.

Instead, it's the paint-chipped Matchbox and Hot Wheels
who chase each other
through the city streets,
my oldest friends,
who shout over the din of the lunchroom
about which is better,
Star Wars or Indiana Jones,
who I usually yell along with.
Yet today,
I can't help but watch you,
downcast and alone,
and wonder if I should go over
and say

"Hi"

Response to Curse 7

On the street

this morning,

amid the traffic

of commuters,

fighting their way

for their weekly pay,

I saw a rat,

once alive,

now flat as a tortilla,

its insides peeking out,

looking like chewed up

cinnamon gum.

Its hairless tail

poked up from

the asphalt.

Its body

an airless sac

of death.

I hope this morning

that you feel

just as deflated,

as lifeless

and still as its

rotting corpse.

9:01 and One Second (Curse Poem)

All I was doing
was walking,
earbuds in
and I guess you have
somewhere better to be,
I guess it matters whether
you are there at 9:01
or 9:01 and one second.
So I hope the turnstile hits your back
as you exit it.
And I hope later,
in the bathroom,
you find a vivid, blue bruise,
that turns a deathly black over the day.
I hope that when you reach the top of the stairs
your sneaker catches the lip,
and you end up kissing the gum-stained concrete.
I hope you can't ever wash away that taste,
the taste of cutting me off
in front of the turnstile. 

Reese's (innuendo poem)

Let me take you in my hand,
as I stride out of this dimly lit deli.
I'll peel back your wrapper,
run my fingers down your naked, brown body
and hold your two cups gently in my hands.
My lips will brush against your smooth milk chocolate,
and I'll begin to eat your golden insides,
your butter filling my mouth,
just a little dripping down my chin.
My tongue will dissolve you,
and make us one.
I'll revel in your creamy taste,
as you course through my body.
And even after you're gone,
I'll savor your milky flavor in my mouth and mind.

Coins (for assignment)

People sway, like an underwater plant

Tattered jeans above black Nikes and an extended hat

Snaking through them, the clown fish among the anemone.

The coins in my wallet pulse

My arm itching to toss them in

Among the jangling silver.

But I see the coins

Melting into gold amber,

Forming little air bubbles,

Being raised to cracked lips.

As the sneakers shuffle past,

My arm rests by my side.

Where were you?

Where were you?
When the wind ran through the trees
Lifting our frisbee, higher and higher,
Our muscles pumping, dodging strollers and dogs
Leaping over watermelon and checkered blankets
The clank of metal bats and screams of excited parents surrounding us
The clean air rushing up our nostrils, invigorating our innocent bodies

Where were you?
When the dark clouds began to roll over the skyline
Drenching us while we stood on the rear deck of the water taxi
Our tattered clothes slowly soaking up the rain
The setting sun glowing behind Liberty's silhouette
The cool drops nourishing our tired bodies

Where were you?
When the bass pulsed, mixing with the alcohol
Sliding down our throats while the lights dimmed,
Doors opened, hands sliding down our smooth skin
The touch of the night leaving our young bodies craving more

Where were you?

The Phantom Girl (revised)

Its now 9:02 and the blue bubble
lonely, surrounded
by an infinite sea of
blank space, is waiting
for the phantom girl's response.
Waiting to see her blonde hair,
so blonde it's as if the sun reached down and licked it,
streaming over her shoulders
down her terracotta back,
her slate blue eyes
rustic and industrial,
her cherry nails,
the paint freshly dried.
Waiting to feel her small warm hands
sliding down my back,
her pale pink lips
brushing against mine,
letting me taste the mint gum
she had chewed on the train earlier,
her smooth legs wrapping around me,
easing us onto the clouds of the covers
diving deep into the folds of the blanket
until we are lost among each others bodies.
Its now 9:03, and the blue bubble still sits alone.
There had been some hope this time,
but now I can feel her summer blond hair coiling itself around my neck,
like a snake around a tree,
squeezing until the last
breath of optimism escapes my bloated lips.

Robert Fulton (love poem)

Robert Fulton

Tick Tock
Tick Tock
My eyes burn holes into the clock's mocking face.
It stares back, not flinching.
Tick Tock
Tick Tock
My eyes lazily walk down a spiral staircase
finally landing on her.
Brown hair cascades over her shoulders,
her tight striped shirt hugs her,
like her future husband will
when the band of commitment is
snug around her finger.
With tiny hands she furiously
jots notes (Robert Fulton-inventor of steamboat)
And now shes standing on the deck
hair dancing a waltz with the wind,
white dress billowing around her knees.
She smiles, the sort of genuine smile
that only happens in a daydream like this,
and the spray is jumping up around her,
the dry sun twinkling off the droplets.
Her wide brimmed sun hat
suddenly is soaring through the sky,
running away along the river.
And she laughs and
I laugh because
this is paradise and
she is happy and
I am happy and
Tick Tock
Tick Tock

Queen Anne's Lace

I want to feel your sweet embrace,
Your pure, pale skin, my Queen Anne's lace.
I want to feel your warm, soft face,
See your eyes that sparkle like outer space.

It has been forever since I've seen you last,
But all my errors are deep in the past.
Long, long gone, so I thought I'd ask,
If you, my sweet cherry, would take me back.

So let's replant this seed and let it grow,
Into a luscious tree, with branches reaching low.
We'll climb to the top and gaze below,
Shot by the arrow from Cupid's bow.

The Phantom Girl

The blue bubble
lonely, surrounded by an infinite sea of
blank space
waiting for her response. It's now
9:02 and the phantom girl
is still missing. There had
been some hope this time,
but it was now being squeezed out of me,
her summer blond hair twisting around my neck,
suffocating my heart until it turns
blue and cold.
I should've known
that she wouldn't show,
what would've made this night
different from all other nights.
It's now 9:03 and I'm
wondering where she could be
Stuck in traffic on the BQE?
Train delays on the A or C?
Or maybe she was
"sick"
again? Where are you, phantom
girl, where are you?
Buzz
Buzz
"I'm really sorry aga..."
Well
what was I expecting from the
phantom girl?

The Carnage of a Conversation

I want the carnage
of a conversation

the curses and dark tales-
the woods-winding weeping willows

its dirt path, dredging up a memory
footsteps telling of follies and flings

nights when the streetlights twinkle-
the a.m.- tears and treasures

tied up in love, lost
a million Marches ago

aging-high on a shelf-
locked up with the key thrown

down, down the drain
down through the sewers

into the open sea, only
to be swept up onto the shore

sitting among the seashells-and two years later,
sifting through the sand

toes curled, curled around a key
slid in a pocket

and once again
the doors are wide open

hey god

hey god
i know it's been awhile (forever) but can
you lend me a hand.

i'm not asking
for much. i got a three two count
dad was just here, telling me he's
gonna yank me if i
can't get just one guy out.
so can you just reach down here
and throw me
one damn strike?

make it so fast that the ball
catches fire. make this a fucking comet.
make it straight as an arrow
but with a nasty break
right when this fucker thinks he got
served up a big fat meatball. make it
tie number fifteen in knots. make dad's jaw
hit the fucking floor.

that's all. just one
mean fucking
pitch. that's all
i need.

not remorse

I simply want to be the memory
triggered
(like a AK-47)
in her mind
when she sees
that photo
crumpled
at the edges
after five
or ten
or fifteen years
buried in a coal mine
of clothes
paper

the green of the grass and the
red of the towel
the kind of itchy one that her
parents hopefully wouldn't
mind getting dirty

the soft touch of her
hands
in mine
the warmth
of our pulsing bodies
joy
transparent love
but still some sort of
connection

maybe if I had come
just a little
later
but there would still
be the dark
tears of those words
the ones I repeated so
many times
the words that left
me
with the cold sweat
when I needed them most

I just want to be the memory
she looks back on with happiness
not remorse

A Summer Drive

2/8/15


The wind
howls,
And the tall grass dances
along.
The pavement is silent,
the smoke settling into
the waves of green.

Black lines crisscross the road,
where the green Outback, screeched and skidded
a flurry of bodies and metal.
The black treacle pavement is still warm.

The car now rests on it's roof
among the grass,
which is swaying side-to-side
like an inflatable tube man outside a Pep Boys.

Oil drips from the tail pipe like molasses,
and a squirrel pokes it's head through
a shattered window.
The sound of sirens in the distance
grows closer.