failing to break it down smaller to find infinity
a grazed edge of a curtain
and there are eyes behind
I feel them the instruments
of atom dissection are on the tray
tweak the electrode, power up
the magnetic field she’s sucked
to the starting gate, a proton
knowing her place in the big bang
moves as fast as she can
into anti matterthe black side
of a proton into
antiproton her heart spirals
into the bubble chamber
her momentum expiring
in a top quark, deconstructing neruda
it was green the silence ; the light was moist
the month of June trembled like a butterfly
of of a of of ;
like green of of the trembled
it the ; month green of
break it down to smallest parts, smaller
than words to syllables
the green of like
it was — moist was ; trem
bled
June month but a fly
—
light ter
si lence
—
it was a green fly sail
patron alighting moist
with June-bled butter stopped
who dared touch her hair
her stopped it who
patron who green hair dared
green
butter her hair her butter who stopped
It begins with the Brooklyn Bridge
the only new worlds are unexplored
mindstheir manifestations
(this, a glorious leap from shore to shore)
a window, a wormhole
enter in at the straight gate
arched portals in neo-Gothic stone,
an approach [to a city]
for which (wo)men die(d)
she’d climb, too, its catenary sweep
strung like a harp, its breathtaking peek,
if not for a fear not of the accidental slip
but an irrepressible urge to fly
and millions of worlds await
but how can she ever know a city?
from the markets of the neighborhoods,
this one, upper-funky class
where shoppers buy ready-made
gourmet for one do they care
to know her as she does them
from her spoon hovering over Kalamata,
Atalanti stuffed with herbs
spicy green purple blackher dropped-jawed
awe over so many olives,
at counters of a thousand cheeses, bakery of
a hundred breads
but where are the children?
there. [one small girl in a sunflower dress]
she hears the city in its poets
Urbanaslam / open mics
at the Bowery, the crowd’s hoots
and hollers for a wizened man’s “shit” and “piss”,
a virgin’s reasons why they ain’t gonna have her
in its musicians
clues from the drum kit of a drummer of trash
a pickle pail, cookie tin, patina of his frying pan
(where’s he been? which alleys, which kitchen?)
an oven rack swings on old shoelaces
she learns from young boys’ faces,
pink with dance
(with admiration)
from the dogs people walk
fashion accessories / family
a Pekinese to match a purse
crippled bitch in the baby stroller
the Basset whose owner has his eyes
she’s a shadow on subways, skims books
over shoulders peers into doorways
of brownstones and boxes; she flips her nickels
out on the streets
back at the bridge
and weights her stockings
as Clara did, a pioneer, the first to fly
enter in at the straight gate
her feet hit first
she lives to / why /
and millions of worlds await
A Birthday Ghazal for Ray
To make poetry’s possible
At home even briefly in the human wild
~Olga Broumas
As you raise a beer to December’s long night moon in the sky,
your poems soar above the page like a second
moon in the sky
As the candles of years to come blaze brightly, the sun will rise
again and again, soft as a deer, gold doub-
loon in the sky
I’m sure of these things, sure as you’ll play Prine’s Christmas in Prison ,
sure you’ll blow from east to west like a ty-
phoon though the sky
I wish I could fly you a snowball from Maine, packed in dry ice,
sent overnight to Georgia like a maca-
roon through the sky
so you could toss winter high, and confound the neighbor’s wife who’d
exclaim, my goodness dear, is that a second
moon in the sky?
in the wee hours
you blow jive lingo, rattle paper shades
between us ‘til they snap! let in the light
and curtains shimmy lace in a Lindy hop
a jazz-riff zephyr wafts your word, invades
my sweet peach like a hot mosquito bite
I’ve got to scratchmy head’s a spinning top
though I ain’t had my coffee yet, but those
are sly high ways you wind me up so tight
I call you up ‘cause I can’t wait be-bop
be-bop meet me in five at Uncle Joe’s
Truck Stop
sevenlings
(birds & bands)
purple-banded pigeons fly over the band
the trombonist weeps for his wife between slides
and suzy tries to catch a melting italian ice
outsizing the season, thorns of wild oaks
dip both ankles in olive oils
finding my toes at the root of the mandrake
I string the needle with a bamboo sword
~
(breakfast & men)
the smell of his hair rolls through the air
pearls to pink push men to the diner
I like waffles-he scrambles eggs
the shoemaker the baker the candlestick taker
all are alive in the birdhouse on maine street
wee women paint peace signs on toe nails
my toe ring still in place these three years gone
~
(fruits & songs of the 70’s)
flutes and grapes and umbrellas
fend off pleas please come to boston
finish this hysterical novel , she simpers
open fans slice at orange airs
I trip over his saw-dusty lunch box
beetle shells in flames, the well runs over
play a graceful game of hopscotch, drop the stone
~
(wishes & fish)
half a green window gapes open
a sewing machine churrrrrs making shoes
the paving stones rush to the door
pock-marked with temporary violets
in a box in the corner, herrings soak in salt
loving tongues lick the vicious
at the end of this hall, here I am
