In a past life, I wrote poetry. I nearly accepted an offer to study creative writing at the New School in NYC, but I wound up deciding to focus on opera (How did that work out, Sophie?) and the rest is history. That said, I figured I’d breathe a little of my non-porn persona into this blog with a few pieces from my past. Before you say it, I know… As a friend once said: “Those aren’t poems. Those are just statements.” Whatever. This is my house! I also figured this might be just the shot in the arm I need to fire up those synapses again and get some new material going. Who knows?

 

Serial

I’m an unconventional instrument,
But that’s okay.
Too vulgar for strumming metaphors
And held together with the odd wires and twine of my experiences.

We didn’t know how to be good for each other -
Creating impositions in our lives.
We are enclosed in these beastly vestiges
And don’t know where people go;
Where they are supposed to fit in our lives.

I have a pattern of features that don’t come clear -
Taking people for what they’re worth,
But never looking dead on.
This makes memorizing a face so rare and important.

The ability to draw charm from a missing tooth
Is a marked change for me,
Eliciting shaken realizations, caught breath
And visions in half-born skeleton forms
Of what might have been.

This cycle will continue on in other vessels -
Going too fast, burning out
Or fading away like a dry thunder clap in the sky.

I will find a way to make these things seem trite and inconsequential.
Still, reading and re-reading
And wishing sometimes to change my wording.

 

Chauve

I could feel you change
Under my fingertips
As the skin pulled taught across your skull
And I tried to trace the topography of your head

The smooth planes like lake-sides
Meeting forests of spiked salutations
Caught under the dragging of my nails

While your chest was pressed against me
I kept thinking about typewriters
In the drifting morning haze of my mind
Perhaps brought on by the beating under your ribcage
Like the tempered click of the keys

Limbs and palms and lips and even feet
Furiously trying to remember you
To store the memory of the curves, protrusions, patches of hair
For some other time

As we kissed goodbye
And you started out the door
I felt light in my selflessness
Having passed the weight of the world to you

 

I Find Little India Very Romantic

I’m sitting here
On the precipice of crying, though not from anything,
Feeling the slow, gentle thaw
Out of the winter that is my life.

Cells alive and vibrating again,
Hair standing on end,
My eyes widening as I exit hibernation
And exhaling slow, steady breaths
As if into an ear.

Another reminder that good
Lurks under the surface of everything;
I feel that spoon
Scraping away at the space under where my ribs meet
Trying to find my prize.

I speak only in a secret language
No one else knows yet.

I will emerge with liberated curls,
Collar bones, a head full of songs,
Anecdotes and quotations for every situation -
There will be an irresistible gravitational pull.

 

Half Drunk of Babble You Transmit (Half Drunk Cause Pitcher + Straw = Bad Choice)

Tongue tied
I looked up to see the clouds
Stirred into the strange, deep blue
With legs shaking from cold, ketosis and lurching stomach moments

The switching of lights, so far away
Flickering Cinq Roses, which I couldn’t effectively communicate
With slack mouth and thickened lips
Because I know not many look at the city that way

Wishing, as I cautiously descended,
That I would not be judged for taking my shoes off
And climbing a tree
I feel there are saintly people somewhere who understand

Trying to forge things
Slamming the square peg down
But I can’t get there

Wringing myself for drips
And spouting nothing but lines
Wrought with falsified security

Nonchalance is unappealing
At this hour

 

Bagel Mission

Sneakily, I wriggle out of your arms in the morning
Like a cat who doesn’t want to be held
Not because I don’t love luxuriating in bed
But rather, a wave of excitement sets in
And I need to hit the streets
While they’re still awash with dawn

I set out to get bagels
Although I don’t particularly like them
It’s a sweet thought to bring them to you while they’re still warm
It’ll be much too hot and dry later in the day
And we’ll be on the fire escape trying to catch a breeze
Or breaking ice cube trays into a bath

It feels too early to be out
Crossing the street at any point
Without danger of being hit by an impatient car
I take the long way, darting through alleys
With friendly laundry lines
Peeking above wood fences

Returning several hours later
Clutching a sweet-smelling paper bag
You’re still in bed, sound asleep
I sit on the bed and pull my shoes off over my heels
Then pull my shirt off by one sleeve, roll my jeans off my hips
And hear – “Hey, you’re back.”

 

Partnering

I want to lift you
To hold you high above my head, elbows locked
Feeling how your back curves, how your body tenses
Sensing the taughtness of muscles
And feeling small shifts as you blink and steady yourself

You are not lithe, you do not curve delicately
All of your weight is given willingly
And you coil up, bending at the knees and again at the ankles
With feet, flat and splayed and smelling of gym floor,
Pointing towards the fluorescent lit ceiling

I will hold you as come down
Loosening out of your pose
Sliding down the front of me
Not easily, but with clothed friction
Causing your shirt to ride up

But so quickly, I will crumple over you
Feeling your back pressing into my ribs
And moving with your exhalations

You pull out of this
Causing immediate attention on my part
Only to turn to face me
Cupping the side of my face in your sweet hand

 

Give me your dear little hands, so that I may kiss them.
(I Put the Emo in “Un bel di, vedremo”)

I look at the clock over your bed and say
“Hey, it’s 4:44. Make a wish.”
We laugh because we make
The same stupid wish every day.
We’re so lame; we’re such girls.

It’s like I’m Butterfly and you’re Suzuki.
Singing “Tutti I fior” in advent,
We strip branches bare,
scatter whatever has blossomed,
And leave the garden in ruins.

I change the sheets and shave my legs.

You sit, pessimistic and listening to Elliott Smith
Break-up songs before it’s even begun to dissolve.
But not me – I tell you again
Exactly what I’ll do when he comes back.
My idealism illicits the shaking of heads
And the clucking of tongues.

See, it’s the coy thing that really gets me in trouble.
Looking away more than in his direction,
Sending off the wrong signals.
But, when I let my guard down
And look straight at him,
I’m slack and wordless and overwhelmed.

How easily I give in.

As much as I love the lurching feeling I get
Just walking around, preoccupied with looking good
Lest I get caught off guard,
It is much easier to stand in defiance and say:
“All this will happen, I promise you.
Keep your fears to yourself,
I, with faithful trust will wait for him.”
When distance interferes.

The phone rings: It’s for you.
And I should get going anyways.

 

Form

I envision the quotations
Peeling from the page
And wrapping around
Your two dimensional shape
Like a wire coat hanger
Wound up with yarn.

But the words would know
The topography of
The bridge of your nose
And the way your lips puff out
When you get an idea.

Over the curve of
Your lash-less lids
And allowing the crevices
Of your smile-formed crows feet.

Verbs spiral down your torso,
Grazing your ass
And moving fast now
To complete your thighs
And high calves
With muscles like tennis balls.

This man, this jumble of words
Comes walking in
On his skinny feet with the
Splayed toes of articles.

Steady steps along
The lines of my life.
I open the door willingly.

 

En éloge abstrait du printemps

En marchant vers la bibliothèque de référence,
Je devient attiré vers les ruelles de Yorkville.
C’est mes souvenirs des jardins de fleurs sauvages
Qui font mériter ce détour.

Je passe à travers les magazins de lingerie Française,
Des chocolats Belges et des savons qui coûtent trop cher.
Je me stationne a l’autre bord de la rue
Tout près des églantines fleurissantes.

On pourrait dire que c’est le fait
Que la terre gelée vient de laisser pousser l’herbe,
Ou que la neige disparaisse et les crottes de chien se révélent
Qui signifie que printemps vient d’arriver.

Pour moi,  c’est l’anticipation avec laquelle
Je rebondis vers la porte de son bureau.
J’implore: “Viens dehors un moment.
On peut sauter dans la fontaine fondu et
Mimer qu’on joue l’harpe en cueillissant les courants d’eau.”

 

Take It All in Stride

There’s a bald James Dean leaning against the door
Of the Jewish Community Centre,
Finishing off a cigarette before going in to lift weights.
Today he’s working on his vanity muscles.

His head, catching and holding the light
Like a magnifying glass,
Is accented with spectacle frames that
Detract attention from those eyes,
Brimming with the same blue as mine.
His leather jacket, usually so tough looking,
Just looks silly when paired with
Striped track pants and cross trainers.

The laughter rises up to the top of my head
As I quicken my pace,
Because he said:
“I don’t want to get into anything serious.
I don’t want to have us relying on each other.”
He said it like he was afraid of me.

But here he is, signed up for my gym.
He must have found out that I go here.
I could almost hear his heart starting up
Like an old car motor down the street
And sense his nerves jangling like pocket change
As he looked for something to busy himself with
From the minute I got into his field of view.

As I climb the cement stairs, I’m compelled to stop.
There’s a wall of teeth that divides us.
He looks up and grins as if this is just a happy coincidence.
For a man who’s mostly lip, that’s a lot of teeth,
And they make up for every time he called me childish.
His voice modulates higher; the chords tight with tension.
The lump in his throat makes me feel strangely vindicated.

Granted, I’m not going to see him again for a long damn while.
The knowing sideways glance I shot
As I brushed past him and through the doors
Was enough to send him scuttling back to his shell.
As long as I keep my cool,
And pretend that I don’t care whether or not he shows up,
He’ll come back around.