A cold wind blows as she looks with troubled
eyes upon the newly fallen snow; she cries a little
for he who sits on the corner
as if he knew her, as if she knew him.
Star's old light mourns a world ten years past;
new light knows not what's ten years gone;
she admires stars of present black
upon a crowded street alone.
And all those passing on the street—
Dante knows where they reside—
shrug their shoulders, avert their gaze:
they hope St. Peter is on their side.
She glances once more from weathered face
to eyes of glass and eyes of coal.
Her star closes in to become a hole:
a cynosural tear for a long lost soul.
NS ‘08
Sunday, November 22, 2009
The Meet-Cute
“Come on, get on,” he says. “This’ll drop you off right in front of your dorm.” I step in and grab the metal bar as the bus begins to move. My friend stands close to me, holding onto the bar above him, above my head. Next to us, the jolt of the bus has caused a very tall young man to lose his balance and knock into a petite and pretty girl. “Oops, I’m sorry!” He’s embarrassed; she smiles. “It’s fine.”
I turn to my friend and whisper, “That could be a meet-cute. Like for a movie.” He says, “What the hell is that?”
NS' 09
I turn to my friend and whisper, “That could be a meet-cute. Like for a movie.” He says, “What the hell is that?”
NS' 09
No Gentlemen
Two middle-aged women walk down Lafayette, choosing to adventure into one of the Village’s more formal Chinese restaurants. As they follow the hostess to a table, the first woman sends a cursory glance around the room. They approach the table, where one seat faces in and the other is a bench against the wall. The first woman stands back as her friend slides onto the bench seat; she then takes the opposite.
Woman#1: I just find it so strange now when I see so many couples out for dinner with the woman sitting here (she gestures to herself; more generally, to the seat facing the wall) and the man sitting over there (to her friend, sitting on the red cushioned bench).
Woman#2: And why’s that?
Woman#1: Well, the gentleman takes the outside seat because a lady should never have her back to a room!
Woman#2: So why do they do it then?
Woman#1: Because there are no gentlemen left in the world.
NS '09
Woman#1: I just find it so strange now when I see so many couples out for dinner with the woman sitting here (she gestures to herself; more generally, to the seat facing the wall) and the man sitting over there (to her friend, sitting on the red cushioned bench).
Woman#2: And why’s that?
Woman#1: Well, the gentleman takes the outside seat because a lady should never have her back to a room!
Woman#2: So why do they do it then?
Woman#1: Because there are no gentlemen left in the world.
NS '09
Selfish
Selfish now, I’m going to be selfish now, when I think of them and I think of you and knives and the metaphorical glue that won’t fix what you’ve literally hacked into pieces, pieces and pieces and pieces, it’s true, pieces of me and pieces of you, pieces of us, pieces of skin, pieces of her and pieces of him, pieces of me and pieces of you, of my sisters and father and my mother, too.
Selfish, now, I’m going to be selfish, now, listen how I choose to complain and cry and chain smoke cigarettes in the form of old regrets and all the wrong outlets for anger, and worse because you’re not a stranger, there’s too many ways to displace the confusion that comes with your face and the number seven because you were the seventh and I hate October fifth through the seventh, interesting how things like that happen, how things like that happen to people like us.
Selfish, now, I’m going to be selfish, now, when I think of myself and the years I lost, the years that some say are the best in their lives, but I was watching my family die, and I spent them with nothing but black on my mind and in my heart that lost all its blood and stopped beating when the aorta was nicked by the kitchen knife that she used at Thanksgiving dinner.
Selfish, now, I’m going to be selfish, now, and say things I really don’t think and don’t care to say because sometimes it’s good to say things you don’t mean so you can realize you don’t mean them and how much I never hated you for slicing through everything I loved.
NS '09
Selfish, now, I’m going to be selfish, now, listen how I choose to complain and cry and chain smoke cigarettes in the form of old regrets and all the wrong outlets for anger, and worse because you’re not a stranger, there’s too many ways to displace the confusion that comes with your face and the number seven because you were the seventh and I hate October fifth through the seventh, interesting how things like that happen, how things like that happen to people like us.
Selfish, now, I’m going to be selfish, now, when I think of myself and the years I lost, the years that some say are the best in their lives, but I was watching my family die, and I spent them with nothing but black on my mind and in my heart that lost all its blood and stopped beating when the aorta was nicked by the kitchen knife that she used at Thanksgiving dinner.
Selfish, now, I’m going to be selfish, now, and say things I really don’t think and don’t care to say because sometimes it’s good to say things you don’t mean so you can realize you don’t mean them and how much I never hated you for slicing through everything I loved.
NS '09
Do you trust me?
Look in my eyes: do you trust me?
I’ll kill all that which makes you ill,
Drive it all away and save you still;
Don’t worry – you’re safe in my hands.
I promise to keep you when no one else can.
NS '08
I’ll kill all that which makes you ill,
Drive it all away and save you still;
Don’t worry – you’re safe in my hands.
I promise to keep you when no one else can.
NS '08
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Word Play
My bedroom is a veritable paradise of play.
Even when empty, every stimulus –
weighty word or petty onomatopoeia –
becomes speech,
becomes verse,
becomes rhyme, limerick,
ode to another moment:
my door is an emotional treasury
of greetings and goodbyes,
my pillows whisper whimsical words,
my bed springs screech an anaphora of ecstatic phrases,
my walls are white space silence,
each corner a volta;
and so my closet is filled with songs,
my drawers are filled with poems,
and my life is filled with sound.
NS 11.04.09
Even when empty, every stimulus –
weighty word or petty onomatopoeia –
becomes speech,
becomes verse,
becomes rhyme, limerick,
ode to another moment:
my door is an emotional treasury
of greetings and goodbyes,
my pillows whisper whimsical words,
my bed springs screech an anaphora of ecstatic phrases,
my walls are white space silence,
each corner a volta;
and so my closet is filled with songs,
my drawers are filled with poems,
and my life is filled with sound.
NS 11.04.09
Pomme Rouge
Regardes quand je te mords ; je veux que tes
yeux soient
ouverts.
Les lèvres souples écartent
pour trouver ta peau exposé…
elles t’embrasent, doucement, et tout
les deux sont ivres de joie. Un soupir
s’échappe ; nos corps tremblent,
et je pense que quelqu’un
mourra ce moment
et il ne sera point moi.
Je sais ; je ressemble au cancer de l’ovaire.
Je souris en engloutant tes enfants.
ouverts.
Les lèvres souples écartent
pour trouver ta peau exposé…
elles t’embrasent, doucement, et tout
les deux sont ivres de joie. Un soupir
s’échappe ; nos corps tremblent,
et je pense que quelqu’un
mourra ce moment
et il ne sera point moi.
Je sais ; je ressemble au cancer de l’ovaire.
Je souris en engloutant tes enfants.
NS 11.10.09
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