//
NOM De Plume
Darling,
Now that you’re Dead they
have their way
with y/our name! so earnestly cor(rupt/rect)
with Words are they
(unfaithful revisionist historians
peek inside
“(y)our” books that are out now.)
All of that fool
ishness? Tolerable while you live(d),
now heaven knows Its Time
up
grow
& be proper. They say they
love y/our work
(but men do lie about love)
andthemonster is so tired of
your Stupid Names and now p
ity them we should, so busy and
unkind.
(just conform and we
won’t speak of it again.
it never happened.)
Some
might say you were made of
(what never happened?
exactly!)
Some
pseudonym you are
no longer (all)owed:
(and as if you haven’t already guessed)
my e.e.everything
ShareOn the One / Nine
I need to disembark at 191st
But he is killing the old woman now
And I can’t disentangle myself until 207th.
I circle back.
At the 191st Street station, I walk down a
Sisyphusian tunnel – will I forever be that body
In motion and never at rest?
Any man walks towards me, a strong wind
Pushes from the Broadway end, in my face
And at his back.
He sizes me up, but I still carry Raskolnikov’s
Anguish inside me, and I am
Sure that it shows. He drops his eyes
And continues past me.
I listen for return footsteps.
I see women alone on the train, and
Wonder if they are at all afraid. I ride
The trains at night by myself all the time
And am duly punished for it.
Perhaps these women were already here as the
Streets grew up all around them, some
Aching, reaching wilderness.
While I am just an interloper
New to screeching subway brakes,
Hard, unseeing eyes, self
Conscious indifference.
This injustice and fierce happiness.
I fight for this Every Day.
I must be feeling Calvino’s Invisible Cities
As I envision something enabling
The objective and meaty city to become
Whatever subjective malleable thing
It already is.
Fried Pork Chops
I try to picture him in Prague,
Though I’ve never been there
And am not 100 percent sure he has either.
I piece together a composite Prague for him
To wander in, from random sooty black and white
Snapshots, and film stock laced with jumpy lines.
I see no future here, only heartache and loss,
And I can neither avert my eyes nor alter my path.
Or to be truthful, I don’t want to.
It seems to me that this overripe friendship
Grows juicier, like the mango he ate this morning,
With kissing and fucking and too much ache.
He’s a Scorpio, 29.
He’s reading aloud to me from his journal
After coming. He has that awkward
Honesty, a rawness, that
Arouses and scares me. He has that
Casual coiled pounce tucked into
His shirt pocket. The cliché is
“A Quiet Intensity”.
Here in New York City
He wolfs down his food,
Belches loudly, and neatly folds
Dirty clothes onto a chair.





