Escapist Haiku

2 Apr

I’m a rocket ship,

rockets don’t do well on land.

Shatter glass ceilings.

Train Cup Lost Poem

1 Apr

On the subway on my way to yoga
On an unassuming Monday night, a group of rowdy teenage boys
Yell and tease each other.
Harmless, really.
One of them calls the other a homo,
Or a faggot or a princess,
Something derogatory,
Much more harmful than their general demeanor,
But anyway I wasn’t really listening,
I was too involved with my growing love affair with Hemingway.
The boy who had been called a fairy, or a fag, or a boy-kisser or what-not,
Threw his cup at the offending member of his social group.
They all laughed.
The cup hit the ground of the subway, and no one picked it up.
I started to glance at the cup,
And the boys, one by one,
Reached their designated subway stops.
They lumbered off the train two by two and/or one by one,
In a chorus of hugs and high fives and laughs and shouts.
No one picked up the cup.
By time there were only two boys left,
I was directly staring at the cup, Hemingway forgotten in my lap.
I hoped, I prayed, silently, that the last two boys would take it before they left the train.
We rolled into 42nd st and they left together,
The cup forgotten on the ground.
Patrons stepped around it, avoided it, left it,
And I was mesmerized, staring,
Hoping for a Good Samaritan to take the cup from the train with them.
No one did.
Finally my stop arrived and I fetched the poor paper cup from the ground and brought it off the train with me,
Overwhelmed with sadness for all the cups on all the trains that I wouldn’t be there to retrieve.

Haiku x2

21 Mar

Silent snowflakes fall
walking to the bar on a
normal Monday night.

Here is the problem
One hundred poems written,
And then you just leave

I hope; A poem.

28 Feb

I hope you know I’m begging for you.

Are you proud that you’ve made a mouse of a sphinx?

The mountain of flames and heat;

{Crumble shatter change the tense

Fuck scream loud hearts break.}

I hope you’re very pleased with yourself,

Peering up through your periscope at the mere mortals you crawl beneath.

Do you think about the damage you’ve caused?

Does my the shattered glass box of my chest cavity ever cross your mind?

{Swear, scream, hit, bleed,

break the fucking thing open,

shit shit shit shit}

Too busy with your fancy similes and your lies.

Getting raped on subway cars by strangers without agenda.

I hope you fucking miss me.

On Hipsters, A poem or something like one

21 Feb

We’re at a cafe called “Milk and Roses,”

Where the lights are so dim, I could have sworn it was closed and walked right by.

It’s a good thing she has cash on her,

because I would have been screwed, with my three credit cards,

and starbucks app on my phone,

as my only methods of payment.

Jazz piano music plays over speakers,

thousands of books line the walls and actual lit candles

sit on every table top.

Fairy lights twinkle in the windows and a girl rambles on about how

she “wanted to date Danny” but that he was “already talking to her,”

and particularly emphasizing that “she’s my friend, so that I had to be okay with it.”

Her chatter, the credit cards in my wallet, and the laptop I am typing on,

make it hard for me not to think that the whole environment,

with the tea and the books, and the mini grand in the corner,

is all a bit forced.

My generation does not appreciate simplicity.

We are too busy running from place to place,

our pockets buzzing with urgent messages, to actually create our own simplicity.

So we replicate the past in hopes that it may make us feel that we are simple.

We wear second hand sweaters and we talk about “fringe neighborhoods.”

Hipsters have spawned from a need to rebel against our speed but an inability to give it up.

The swing in the music picks up, and for a moment I can feel it,

as if my hair was in victory rolls and this is was a letter to my sweetheart.

Nostalgia for a time I never knew.

The End of A Love Poem

10 Feb

Disposing of her was easier than disposing of you has been.

The photos of her did not burn easily,

but they burned enough and finally I just threw them away.

And I moved on.

The ashes from your burnt letters are sticking to my fingers.

My lungs hurt from breathing in the smoke.

The card would not burn.

The flames of your letter were so beautiful;

I won’t soon forget the blue flicker as the fire burned

in the glass jar you gave me.

A reminder of what our love was:

Fast, Burning, Fucking Beautiful.

And before an eye could blink;

just stubborn ashes stuck to my fingers.

How to make love stay; a poem

8 Feb

Maybe love is just shy.

In elementary school he spent a lot of time alone and he grew to like it that way.

On the playground at lunch time he would sit alone and read books by himself,

and these were the best days of his life.

So maybe when love got to high school and the other kids started to notice him, 

it made him uncomfortable.

Even when they were being nice, it made love antsy.

He didn’t want people to point him out so much,

he just wanted to read his books, his poems,

his Shakespeare and Kerouac and Keats.

But love was a special kid.

Smart. Funny. 

So he got invited to parties a lot, 

and he went,

because he was kind.

But he didn’t like them much. He didn’t like the attention. 

 

And then people started shouting his name from rooftops.

And he couldn’t bear it.

So he would run away and hide in a closet with his books:

Dickinson, Twain, Rhul

He would get lost in those books where he was safe and sound.

But then, as happens when a person is magnetic and brilliant,

the media caught attention.

And they splashed love’s face all over the world.

On billboards for toilet paper and pamphlets for strippers. 

His name was everywhere, he couldn’t hide.

So maybe that’s why he never stays.

Because people yell his name so loud.

 

So he finds closets to hide in and read until young couples,

bright eyed and fueled by gallons of hormones,

find him reading there, in the closet,

as they kiss each other softly in the afternoon sun,

they open the closet to try to find a place to make orgasms in the dark.

But they open that closet and there’s love.

And he is so wonderful and smart and witty,

And they want him to stay so badly.

More than anything.

And all that want, all that attention scares him, and he won’t stay.

He runs, hoping to find a place where people will let him be.

So maybe that’s how to make love stay.

 

When you open that closet door,

And are lucky enough to find him,

Hand him a new book of poetry,

Maybe even one you wrote yourself, that might be best.

Softly kiss love on the forehead. 

And then take your partner by the hand and lead them away. 

Leave love in the closet to read.

Don’t brag about him or scream his name.

Don’t ask favors of him or get drunk and stumble into his closet.

Don’t invite him to parties, 

Don’t pay him all your attention. 

Just let him be.

Bring him books now and then,

And a soft kiss,

But mainly,

Just let him be. 

And love will stay.

 

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