4 Train from Masholu Parkway to Grand Central (revised)

New York is written on the walls.

This steel and electric boogaloo glides on through the sky

weaving past brick and rock

and I see it there: barely legible shout outs.

The Boogie Down is getting up.

There's no green here. No gardens. No wildlife.

But like desperate weeds I see graffiti

climbing from the cracks and achieving

its own spiritual ascension.

It creeps up the side of apartment buildings

like its own version of central park Ivy.

It settles, gathers, and thrives in little nooks

like an east village garden.

And in some places it is tended to.

Places where the lines between rich and wealthy broadens

like the hips and lips and noses and accents

of those faithful gardeners.

They take precious care of their charges.

They fertilize them regularly while talking shit to the boys.

In the summer they let meringue play from open windows

And freestyle hip-hop from the front stoop.

Everyone knows gardens grow best when sung to.

They don't eat without eating among the Spanish Montana leaves.

They don't drink without watering the three foundations first,

Offering libations for all those that have gone before.
They care for the ever growing vines and brambles

with equally chaotic calculation;

pruning with whitewash, culling the rot

while giving reverence to the dead.

And in the spaces they make, new limbs grow stronger,

the blossoms bloom brighter,

and the graffiti gardens grow taller,

and taller,

and taller

out of the shadows.

Like everything else they strive to reach upwards.

Let Manhattan keep their copses and shaded paths.

The Village can have their occasional street corner trees

and guarded, gated gardens.

All that is fine for them who have clear days

and singing birds

and the ever present sun in people's minds.

Let them escape it if they want to.

The Bronx is so hungry for light.

Tired of Love Poems

read write prompt #83 « Read Write Poem isn't exactly the inspiration for this one, but it's what got me writing, so in a way they are responsible.

---

Hearts dance on my sideboard.
On my bed head.
On my kitchen counter.
Hearts loiter in the bathroom sipping Mai Tais
Beside the porcelain swimming pool.
Hearts leave a disgusting, sanguine sheen
as evidence of their having been
on every usable surface in the house.

I am so sick of love poems.
I am so sick of having recently re-grown my heart
only to have it pound so fast and so hard
that it muscles through the bars on its cage
slumps down my shirt and onto the page,
greets the world with little arterial limbs,
and either immediately starts to dance
to the music of your memory or
Runs off through an open window or door
and gets lost in the street;
lost in so many different ways,
lost trying to get to wherever it is you've gone.

And I'm tired of dishonoring you
with a nightly seance involving me,
a bottle of rum, and a host of elated little blood pumps.
And the spirits we raise are only tricksters.
They're not you.
They smile too much and are happy too often
to really be you.
But still, I swallow their lies whole.
And I stay up all night long
wrapped in the warm fur of insincere memories
and remain thankful for the lack of acuity
that comes with the lack of sleep.

By the time your smile embarks
on its flaming course through the sky
I'm already tired.
I miss you.
But I'm tired of missing you.

---

I might have a hard time convincing you that I never know what'll come out when I write, but you'll have to take my word for it when I say I didn't know what I was doing when I wrote this one. I mean, Wow. Who the fuck died, right?

The Fortunate End of Jonas Blackheart: An aside.

There are dozens of other stories born of each great or minor tale we tell. Stories that travel in directions other than that of their parents. Like embers from a fire, these asides are often overlooked, but hold within themselves the potential for a beautiful dance of flames, or a horrible conflagration.

When Hook ordered his crew to bombard black tooth cove and take the fight directly to Peter and the lost boys, they also managed to incur the wrath of the mermaids who made their home there. A mermaid's wrath is a slow, painful thing. Perhaps, that has something to do with the nature of the creature.

The juvenile mermaid is hardly a threat to anyone. her teeth and claws are dull and her powers of allure ar like those of teenage virgins: unrealized at their worst, and undirected at their very best. Her teats are small and her hair too wild and short to distract from her shell shaped ears. They linger along the shore mostly, as all young sea dwellers know that this is the best place to practice hunting. The adult mermaid is fairly better off. her breasts are full and her hair luxurious, and in the water her speed and strength are unmatched. the elder Sea Hag, on the other hand, looks precisely as frightening as on would imagine, though not because she is ugly. After about a century or so the sea turns her hair a pale green and her breasts sag, though she still has dark, round nipples which certain men find alluring the way a wet tongue exploring bright red lips can distract the mind from the absense of teeth, or the way the smell of cheap perfume on a lady of the night can cause lust and curiosity to override disgust or self-righteousness. No, the Sea Hag is terrifying because, for as much as she is obviously inhuman, to a man longing for shore, she is irresistably beautiful.

The Hag also has a voice, one which defies simple description. Simply put, it is the kind of voice that can cause as much as five fine, regular men to cast off the thrill of battle to clamor quickly and stupidly into the sea. "MAN OVERBOARD!" The call came racing along the ship. By the time the crew had gathered for the rescue three of the men were already eaten. A fourth man, the salty brigand known as Jonal Blackheart, was seen in the water laughing and weeping simultaneously as the mermaids surrounded him. Four of them swam with him at the surface. Their hands carressed his sun-beaten skin. Their teeth sunk deep into the flesh of his chest, his belly, and his legs. A single hand grasped passionately at his matted hair. Later, at his wake, the men would remember that the tho only time jonas had responded to something with anything more than a miserable grunt was that day. "Don't save me, gents" he'd manage to say just as he kicked away the buoy and rope meant to save his life, or at least give him hope. "Oh god. Oh heaven. Oh hell what awaits me! If ye could feel what I'm feeling ye'd beg for the same. Don't ye dare save me!"

For Jonas the sky, the sea, and everything around him had grown exceptionall bright at that moment. Several points of light danced before his eyes. The feel of the mermaids' hands reminded him of a time long ago, when he'd had too much to drink in Tortuga and the bar wench had allowed him to sleep it off by burrying his beard in her mountanous bossom. It was the only act of affection he'd ever been shown, and in his secret mind Jonas called it love. The feel of their mouths on his flesh was something immensely better. The saltwater burned his eyes, the pressure hurt his ears, and each breath of brine was like fire in his lungs. It was all so exquisite, even as the dancing points of light faded into the stark white glow of death.

Against The Light - Part 2

The twins laughed when Carl and Marie told them the story.  It was laughter borne half from genuine amusement and half out of that expected discomfort that comes from one's parents sharing something even marginally intimate.  True to the manner in which they'd been raised they shared both halves equally between themselves.  Karen cupped her mouth, as if she'd suddenly remember that on the other side of the flimsy sheet rock wall facing their modest living room were the Rosenbergs, an elderly Jewish couple who were currently having potato pancakes by the light of a menorah alone.  Her sudden outburst, rather than droning muterings of her father instersperesed by her mother's sing-sing admission, is what would disturb their solemn, silent, sacred meal.

Ruth just laughed outright with mighty busts from her diaphragm, only raising her hand in front of her face because subconsciously she thought it muted her unabashedness.  In reality noting could ever hope to mute Ruth.  It was at times superbly obnoxious magnificently beautiful.  It was she who, upon hearing the news of the tumor pressing against the blood vessels that fed her father's eyes declared "Holy Shit, Pops!  It's a sign!  You've gota come see the big apple while you can still see!"

Karen was more serious about it, as had been her role throughout the years.  She listened over the phone as her mother sumbled arond words like 'inoperable' and 'Clinical Trial' and 'Prolongued life.'  There was silence for a while save for the scratching sound of a  long distance call and then she uttered a long, drawn out "shhiiit..."  And that was how Marie finally came to terms with her twin daughters' propensity for four letter words. 

"How are your eyes now?" Karen asked.
"Oh, just fine." Carl said and watched the blur that was where her face should have been change shape ever so slightly.

After they'd eaten and spoken for a while, Marie helped the girls make the most of their small refrigerator and put away the rest of the half a turkey they'd prepared.  Ruth harped on about how easy making dinner was and how she should really try this cooking thing more often hile Karen started on the dishes and Marie advised that, based on the ammount of chinese take out containers in the fridge, a bit more of 'this cooking thing' wasn't a bad idea.  "Only, you should invest in a baster because it was a little bit dry."

Meanwhile Carl was exploring.  He'd gotten up from the broad dining table in the narrow dining room and was navigating the brief but perilous hallway by extending his arms to either side so his fingers touched the walls as he walked.  It was a far cry from their home in Colorado, this New York City apartment.  He'd found the end of the hallway when his feet bucked against the low shelf that stood there,  Instinctively his hands went toward the clattering, and he caught a standing rectangle, wood at the edges and cold glass in the center, just as it was about to fall.  He held it like a precious thing, looking down at it.  Black.  He turned it over, and there was the brown of the wood.  He tapped the glass center and realized what the thing was.  A picture frame.  The picture was hard to make out.  Several columns of dark blue, flecked with gold, and each column tapped in white, and each exactly similar to the other in shape.

"Isn't he handsome?"  Karen's voice said, and Carl realized that she'd been standing there, her pearl colored dress blending into the off-white walls.  How long had she been standing there, he wondered, watching him fumble blindly.  He looked away from the shape of her face to the homogeneous columns in the picture frame.

"Who's handsome?"  He said.

"C.J.' She replied, and in front of his vision the blur of Karen's finger fell on one of the clustered columns.  "Ruth says he makes that uniform look good."

Against the Light - Part 1

He was dying, and she was dying for him.

When they were still young they each had plans, like all young lovers do.  He would be a structural engineer and she would be a nurse, like her mother.  Only, unlike her mother, she would not grow bitter and old and bent as if stuck in the same salary position throughout her career somehow meant she was in the same position physically.  No, not her.  She would remain tall, whip thin, and beautiful.  They would travel the world, Carl building bridges and towering skyscrapers wherever there was water to be crossed or cities to tower in.  And Marie would learn a different language everywhere she went, for there was never not a need for more nurses, and she would be more beautiful for it.

But then there was C.J.; Carl Junior.  And then Clara.  And then the twins, Karen and Ruth, whos birth Marie had always foretold with warning.  "Twins run in the family, y'know.  I told you.  I tried to warn you, everytime."  Carl, undettered, would marval at the two fuzzy shapes in the ultrasound, facing one another like two shrivelled kidneys beans in council.  He would hover over Marie's bulging round belly and plant two kisses where he imagned bot heads to be.  That was nearly a lifetime ago.  Needless say, it kept them busy until C.J. left.  Clara informed them that she intended to go to law school soon after.  The twins simply said "We've found a place in New York." almost in unison.  One morning, as if falling into a dream or waking up from one, the house was completely empty for the first time in 32 years.

Marie was roused  one morning by the sound of the alarm clock ticking furiously, and absolutely nothing else.  She waited in vain for the morning sounds of dresser drawers pening and closing in the other room, or the twins ' strange brand of argumentative harmony as they went through their shared closet.  There were no succict but meaningful knocks on the bathroom door, nor hissing clattering old pipes as whoever was in the shower used up the last bit of hot water.  The house was empty , and even as she wrapped herself in her robe and came down the stairs every ound she made resonated as if from within an empty thing.  She found Carl at the kitchen table, the morning paper set on th table before him as usual.  Only now his glasses sat just near his right hand, folded.  As he sat down Marie could see a distant, pensive olook on his face.  he misses them, she thought to herself.  Even in the last few months when, one by one, they'd declared their will to leave this place he built for them, he would sit in the ktichen in the mornings with the paperand would toss out tidbits of tnews like chum in water.  Occasionally he'd get a bite and engage one of his children in what might pass for a conversation while they hurriedly ate and rushed out the door.  other times he would incite a frenzy and there'd be slamming doors.  The thought of it made her smile, and then sigh.

Carl, still distant, looked at her shoulder, then at her forehead and her nose.  He smiled wanly.  "Morning, peach." he said.  "You working tonight?  You should get more sleep."

"Can't." Marie replied.  "Can't sleep.  Can't sit still.  Too quiet.  You feel it too, I can tell."  Carl only smiled, deflecting the idea with a handsomeness that persisted even at his age.  "So I suppose we ought to...I dunno.  I guess we ought to do something with the day."

"Well, I guess we can..." And under the table Carl's hand searched her out, finding her thigh and masaging. 

"Mm.  Haven't done that in while.  Oh, but...oh no.  I'm sorry to tell you Carl, if you're hoping to fill up this house with any more pitter patter you're sadly out of luck.  Its a few years too late for that, my friend."

"Actually."  Carl said with a mischievious smile.  His eyes went up in wonderment as he imagined the scenario.  "I was thinking we could make love on the couch.  We haven't done that in a long time.  We could start with you bent over the and then--"

"Oh, the mouth on you!  Have you been holding this in all the while, just waiting for your children to leave before you became one of those lecherous old men?"

"Well, it was just a thought."

"That's sweet dear, but lets be serious for a minute."

"Serious, huh?"

"Yes sweety, serious.  You had all night in an empty house to try a move like that if you really wanted to."

"No, no, I just--Look, I thought it would be nice, y'know?  Like old times."

"Old times for old timers?"

"Why not?  We're only in our sixties and we...Alright.  Look, just forget I said anything, alright?

Marie found his hand under the table and held it in hers.  They squeezed each other and listened to each others breathing.

"Alright, Studly.  So after you've ravaged me on the couch.  What next?"

"Well, if we're being serious...I suppose I ought to go to the doctors."

"The doctors?  That's not too encouraging on the whole ravaging me on the couch deal.  What do you wanna go to the doctor's for?"

"Well." Carl said hesitantly.  "When I woke up this morning I...well I stumbled int the bathroom and...I stumbled out and...stumbled down the stairs to find my glasses and...."

"Spit it out Carl."

"I can't see, Marie."

"W-what?"

"Everything's a blur.  I can't see."

And after 34 years of being together, they'd finally run out of things to say to each other.  Marie squeezed his hand.  Carl squeezed hers back.  The clock ticked louder than ever before.