The evening air is still—
Black ice it lies in waiting—
Walking with the cold
I watch asphalt exhaling.
If winter had a home—
Or frost a day to rest—
It be within this heart,
It be within this breath.
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Hot and Wild
I don’t need a fan
or a fawn, I need a fire—
Hot and Wild—black as coal,
as clean as a diamond
dazzling
in the mud of my soul.
Insomnia: A Short Story
The television’s on.
It’s freezing in here.
I should probably be asleep, but I’m not.
It’s 4:53. It’s always 4:53, when, click, the heat turns on.
Now the draft from the window’s competing with the dull heat, which smells like last years dust, pouring through the vent, above the door, which leads to the living room where the TV’s still on.
In about an hour the sun will be up and it will be another morning.
I can’t tell yet whether or not I’ll be excited or scared, but either way, I have to write my grandmother—thanking her for the letter she sent a couple days prior—she used to fill the cards with glitter but doesn’t anymore…
Perhaps there’s a glitter shortage, I don’t know.
I’ve been pulling my beard out again, which I don’t like, but still do. Why? A doctor would probably claim it’s nerves but by this point in life I know better than that.
It’s funny really, thoughts, how they come and go as easily as a hair can be plucked from your chin.
If I had eggs in the fridge I’d probably boil some for breakfast but I don’t have any because yesterday while shopping I’d debated prices in my head for what seemed like too long to be debating prices of eggs, causing an uncomfortable feeling I just couldn’t shake, making me anxious and aware that I’d been standing in the isle for what seemed like eons though was probably only a couple minutes, still, too long to be debating whether or not I wanted to pay 2.39 or 2.99 for a dozen of eggs.
The heat feels good now, while the right side of my face warms up, the left side is still dealing with the draft from the window.
Common sense tells me to close the window though my better judgement says to just let it be. What’s the point, really?
It’s 5:06 now. It’s always 5:06.
The repetitive nature of this statement keeps recurring in my mind as if the idea isn’t fully mine, though I use it anyway.
Perhaps it’s my conscious mind coming back to me? Perhaps it’s programming I just don’t have the strength to deny, either way…whatever.
It’s 8:08 on the East Coast. My mother’s probably pouring coffee, reading the morning news. My brother’s probably already dragged himself from bed and into work. My nephew’s to school. My sister-in-law to her studio where she makes jewelry from metal and her imagination.
Their routine gives me comfort because right now I don’t have one.
This pandemic has us all in a pretty weird state of affairs, though, my affairs have always been pretty weird now that I think about it.
At least I’m writing again. That’s good.
Everything is pretty all right right now—knock on wood.
And what if this is as good as it gets? Hog wash.
At least it’s warm in here, closing the window, watching the sun rise.
My nail beds are long. I’ve always been told that. “You’ve got piano hands,” they said once, go figure, I don’t play—if I did this would probably make for a better story though, well, you know.
Turning off the TV seems irrational as it’ll just get turned on again tonight, unless, unplugging the TV—Ah! That’s better.
Insomnia, it’s the breakfast of champions.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, the letter.
Isolation
It is as cold
as a steel locket,
isolation
loosely hangs
two chains from a collar,
white as bone, worn
from the hours, of nuance
carefully placed by the bedside,
waiting to be opened
polished and willing
as obligatory as peace
before, the inevitable dawn
which beckons us to
repeat, our autumnal fall
from the burdens we carry.
Manhattan’s in the Village
You know what they say, don’t yuh?
Can’t live with em, can’t live without em
But don’t get me twisted, I’m not talking about women
though the skin beneath my tongue’s still sore
my heart’s still heavy and well
there’s nothing quite like seeing her smile come morning
but anyway like I was saying to this jug of doom
in the evening gloom where I choose not one but two
and then two more to boot because, well, hell
who am I kidding? Nobody but the moon this evening
cause it’s this bitter sweet feeling
the kind you feel deep down in the rumbling, stumbling night
where it all gets so far gone, where nothing meaningful is born
where it all makes some sort of convoluted sense
and alas, once again I am but the floorboards dull creak
where I am like the riverbed flowing calmly and discrete
where life is but a dream and I am dreaming once again
of you dear friend, rustling like the leaves at my front door.
Oh dear friend, how I long to walk the beach again.
How I long to hear your sick, silly, sweet voice again
like those long ago up all Friday nights of old
all those Brooklyn winter blue’s and yellow streetlights
guiding us home, or at least to Crown Fried Chicken where
like two youthful bums we’d scavenge our pockets for change
enough to buy a couple chicken wings, coke, and pint
enough to settle the bone, cold, sidewalk snow till home
where we’d fall arm and arm up stairs
to that old wood, smoke filled, railroad apartment you’d call Grove.
And though I don’t often pray, in my own little way
I do for you now as I did then, driving back to my Long Island apartment.
I pray this little song of self, this little song of you, this small token of my appreciation
for your boundless soul and effortless style and class.
I ate too much cheese, I’d shout while holding a kitchen knife to my throat!
Where in a Polaroid our youth is kept,
where so many nights while you slept I wept,
where you’d give me your bed for a smile,
where I’d talk with Forest about everything and nothing for a while,
long enough not to feel alone in that maddening, crazy New York glow.
So I write this little poem, not enough but enough to show you
I’m still listening through the terror behind the walls.
Dear friend,
How are you?
I can’t live with you, but hell, I can’t live without you.
Manhattan’s in the Village
God knows we never had the scratch, aligned
I feel inclined to take this time and offer you my best
impression not impressed?
CALL ME SPIDER! CALL ME SPIDER!
I just had to get these salami’s off my back.
I just had to sing this short praise of you Mac.
FAWAP!
Awake now
on my back
thumbing through
Kerouac
rattle-tat-tat goes the rain…
While the birds chit
and others chat
another day’s here
Oh, what’s that Jack?
ho-hum-mum
FAWAP!
October 31, 2011
Learning now to live alone
The air is still, bitter, cold
As time tells which way to go
I’ll keep warm inside a poem
In cold blood.
It’s people
who feel invisible
that do
the most heinous things,
and nobody
ever seems to know
who, what, where, when
or why such things could be done,
until after the fact
when there’s enough
evidence
to write a book in cold blood.
Yesterdays sadness today.
The day
is cold
and rainy,
the walls
smell
of paint,
a hint
of death
lingers,
my pockets
are
running dry,
control
is
a state of mind,
right now
I’m
out of it,
I bought
flowers
to liven up the room,
they
help
some,
today is
a soggy
mess,
as for
tomorrow
we will see.
The point
is,
that we will see tomorrow.
