too much

tee shirt can't be found
printers break down
what does it say
about your purim costume
when it is
impossible
to assemble?

untitled

the best feature
of my couch
is the sleeping ornament
on top,
washed in light green,
engine quietly rumbling
underneath glasses
still adorning
her sweet sleepy face.

schrodinger date

she says
the nicest things
about me,

but I have no clue
if she's serious
or just wasting
my time.

smiles so sweetly,
impressed
by
what i bring to the table,

but i wonder
if this is just some fable
she concocted
since we were set up

on this date
by a mutual friend.
this shit again?

i thought days
of misread signs
were
at an end,

instead of friendzone,
worrying about
notsecondinterviewzone.

i thought a benefit
of being married
was I'd never
have to wonder
like this again,

buti'm here,
thinking about calling you
trying to make more points
and smalltalk my way
out of this, miss
please believe me
i'm the one you need
all them other
sisters and brothers
won't treat you
won't proceed
with the same skills
i got in my right fingernails,

i'll be a freak in the field
and a gentleman in the office,

just please,
call me for that second date.

acrostic for serious jewcurls

surely, shimson must have
had job interviews, right?
or maybe he merely
ripped in two the
nearest tree and said "hire me"

in my life

"there are places
i remember"

and then again
a few places
i don't quite remember

but sitting around
singing these songs
with you,

our hair shorter
and grayer,

with apartments
anything but filthy

and partners
that never witnessed

how much fun
slothlike failure
can truly be
with all of you,

people who wouldn't believe
how incompetent we could be
when together.

beatles rock band
replaces
costume parties

and everyone
holds their liquor
like a glass
instead of
sieve or funnel.

we put down
plates of pasta
that far outstrip
the jar sauces
of yesterday,

and laugh like
the twenty somethings
we still are
in each other's
company.

old friends make me want to watch hockey

there he is,
yelling my name
from down the block,
while standing
on a patch of ice

15 years ago,
and we're running around
a tennis court
with sticks and one old net.

then, i was the only one on foot,
the rest favoring roller blades.
i held my own there.

now, living blocks apart
in brooklyn,
not even watching
the olympics,

our 15 year old selves
would be ashamed.

Cafe du Monde

G-d covers world
in cold powdered sugar;
a beignet for all.

Richie of rightdowntheblock

Wanna give me the job
he laughs at me
trying to scale mountains of ice
with my plastic toothpick

i told him my pockets
are far less fat
than I appear

he tells me
he'll come help anyway.

richie of
rightdowntheblock
rains righteous ruptures 'pon
sheets a snow with his surefire shovel,

i trade solitude for partnership,
and the ice cowers and flees,
it would rather melt

than face the wrath of
Richie from rightdowntheblock
didn't want nothin for his time,

only to invite me
to spring cookouts
of roast chicken and fish

and i think of the blocks
i've lived on the last ten years,
and am hardpressed
to find a neighbor as
neighborly as
Richie

who spent an hour of his life
with a total stranger,
beating a three foot mound of ice
into submission
with his old shovel
and a smile on his face.

mouthwash

i tip the glass,
and the brown liquid
wallpapers my cheeks,
hangs sconces on the ridges
of the roof of my mouth,
constructs wading pools
in the recesses of my molars,
and plants wheat and corn fields
in my receptive gums.

the rest of my mouth
doesn't even want
to give my tongue
a chance.

these hands

these hands
stretch in the morning
yawning
like every finger
is a mouth
taking in as much air
as possible

they pass through
boiling water
and concrete air
as they make their rounds

these hands
knock on as many doors
as they can,
in eight states so far,
before they try
to knock down the walls

between you
and inaction
and me.

they walk notebooks
like endless streets,
and sprint
towards embraces
faster than i ever could.

these hands
clench pens
like scalpels
wield word incisions
with precisions,

except when they
embrace pens.

really,
my hands would make out
with every pen they saw
if they could.

but then they'd never
get to play salacious symphonies
in the kitchen
or blend delicious dishes
on the saxophone.

my hands
wrap around yours
little pythons
squeezing silliness
into yours,
though they're not british,

my hands
have been known to cross dress,
convert,
break all kinds of barriers
i myself would never cross,

my hands
sometimes have minds
of their own,

leap into action
without receiving any
encouragement
from my head or chest,

my hands
lead me into action,
pull me up
by fingerstraps
i didn't know existed

and fit around you,
keys lifting all the right pins
till the lock gives way

and everything pours out.

for us who look at champions.

wind battered beauty,
heroine of the fairytale
offered by the best
dreamers, overcomes
adversity, marching
towards triumphs

wished for by
humble spirits
occupying sacred
dirt, and by
americans
that know

such riches
arose here, from
your shipping

docks and your
eateries, from
young black men

gathering to
organize strong
new unions,
no longer pushed
aside from leadership

but represented,
early barkeep
attempts to
temper shabbily

distilled libations and
especially the people, the
marriage of nations,

swirling the sounds
and flavors until
international treasures are
nestled in your borders.

Time again to help you rise.
Super Bowls don't mean the work is done.

cinquain for Brain

my car has carried me across the land,
been a place where I collect my words,
through times happier than I could've planned
or days I thought I couldn't stand
of my own accord,

in storms I had no place
driving around or feeling
safe, with kisses on my face
though you didn't have space
for embraces contained by ceiling

and gearshift. But I watch snow
blanket your bruised frame
while pushing through windows
that don't entirely close
asking, how many more roads will you tame.

snopocalypse noworlater

i watch the windows
like bunny ears-less tvs
but the picture
is surprisingly sharper
than I thought it would be.

fridge is all stocked,
my baby is in bed,
dreaming of getting
work done, instead

of snow day excitement
weighing heavily
on children's minds.

I find that time
has already made me
a grump,

cancelling school
in New York City
would be like
telling the Hudson
not to flow,
or telling New Jersey
don't have chemically altered
multi colored sunsets,

or giving the 4 train
the night off.

Now schools are closed
before snow even arrives.

I'm waiting
for the
snopocalypse
to come,

so i can salt my way
towards redemption
without anyone's tears.

I'm waiting
for the
snopocalypse
to arrive,

so people who know
how to shovel
can be first in line.

so folks who can make
anything taste good
enjoy how prepared
they are
for the snopocalypse

that blows
global warming away.

screw it!
who needs polar ice caps
or domestically grown grain
leave your car on, I say.

maybe today
that will bring about
the snopocalypse,

brought on by
angry nimbus clouds
pounding the capital
for not burning
the senate wing of the capitol
into ashes thatwould
blend in quite nicely with the snow

and the city of brotherly love
for hosting
inferior sports teams.

and Baltimore for
not living up to the
expectations of fans of the Wire

i want tostay up and watch
more picture window tv
but i'm tired
and the picture in picture
is working too well
for a day predicting
two feet
guess i'll take my
four eyes
ten fingers
six limbs, including
two feet
and go
to sleep

but the snopocalypse
might come,
and I don't want to miss it,
because
what if the dinosaurs
melt the snow
before I wake up?

Spuyten Duyvill

We slowdown

as we approach

the familiar bend
in the track,

before we
bank left,

hit the gas

with the
GWB

fading further
into the past.

The Hudson
licks away
at the ground.

She's a cartoon
kindergartener
with an ice cream cone.

slow, methodical,

trying to taste
as much as possible
without missing a drop.

and I want to divein

feel those waters
I've stared at for so long
slip past epididimal defenses

until my vein canals
carry it
to heart and brain.

only way I think I
could carry more New York
with me.

That sly devil,
she's tempting.

harbinger

you're gonna pay

the man dressed
almost exactly like me
yelled from his seat

as the six sped up
towards twenty eighth street.

i know,
i replied,
but i can't afford it.

Meters in February

8 Months till I retire,
8 months till I retire,

the jolly older man
wrapped himself
in an extra layer,
keeping the cold

and my grumpiness
at being rousted
by his arrival

from puncturing
his Florida disposition.

Is the house already picked out?

He pulls at the basement door
like a kid being told to eat
his lima beans.

Oh, it's stuck.
Ah well.
See you in April!
Eight Months till I retire!
onto the next house I go!

His feet melt the snow underneath
as his whole body
consumed the thought
and is already
packed.

untitled

liquid,
swirled around

leaves droplets behind
on the side of the glass.

some of them never
rejoin

the source,

never return
to the pool.

dinner shrapnel

the table
mutters to itself,
being forced
to carry so many dishes
and garlic paper
and oven mitts.

you are finally
getting the sleep
you deserve,

while i'm in danger
of losing the
staring contest
with the remnants of
our brief morsels together.

spy hunter on the bqe

brave
yellow cabbie
threads two black sedans
trying to sandwich us, sans wheel
spikes.

There's a reason they call them the window into your soul

There's a reason they call
them the window into your soul

Clapping laughing
smiling dancing

but your eyes

hand me the map

with secret entrances

and which walls were
skimped on to cut costs
at the end.

your eyes
give me the schematics
to every weapon
in your arsenal

and the access codes
to your armory.

They beg me

not to let on,

So I make silly faces
in the hopes that

your next smile
will be real,

even as your eyes,
pale as the bay
on a good day,

tell me the minimal chances
of that.

quoting a friend, to the president

I love words.

Don't get me wrong,

words have been
pillows for pounding achey heads
umbrellas for downpours,

they have been nutrients
and weaponry,

slicing apart enemies
violently

with nary
a drop spilled.

when my hands
would've killed,

syllables reasoned
with them

but then,

words were my actions.

men and women
spared my temper

and their grief
when words
were stand ins.

words pulled me
up

smacking shyness in the face
and leaving bloody bits of fear of failure
all over the place.

But like any tool,

words can be used foolishly
to paint pretty imagery
existing anywhere but reality

usurping deeds to the point of folly.

Don't get me wrong.

I love words completely.

But words without action
and truth behind them

are empty.

or put another way,

"Now Do Something."

gluetrap

stuck

the rut
collapses around me
and holds fast.

i try every escape recommended,
ask other mice passing by
for best practices,

even have them stare
at my predicament.

some try to pull me out.

it's not so special,

but it's happening to me.

history.

"if you know your history
then you would know where
you're coming from" -Bob Marley

you worked so hard
to teach us our history
to change the point of view
to shift conversations
from dead white men
to voices that need
to live again

and when
i wanted to teach history,
I wanted to use your words, I
never had enough
editions of your books
who's words
set fire to synapses
unused for years.

We could overcome fears
because we knew
we were just
and people were in this
before us

this was not some fool's errand
this was standing on foundations
laid
by the stories you recovered
and put in textbooks.

If it were up to me,

every child in America
would read
multiple versions of
"A People's History"

the way
i studied the holidays
in sunday school
repeatedly,
every year
building on previous understandings
and new frames,

bringing slave rebellions
and sit down strikes
to light
to change the legacy
of this country
and this world,

you have to fight.

They say
he left his last lecture
early

to join a picket line,

well, Howard,

we could sure use your eyes and voice
now.

Trouble on the Five train

You shoulda
told ya girl

to chill out,

he pleaded.

That could've been
a body right there.

Later, I asked her friend
why?

What was so serious?

She was just in
a bad mood,

he said something
snippy

and she went off.

the guy, still pleading,
also said

I went to my girl's
funeral
dressed like this.
I hate stupid shit
like that.
She would've been
28.

Seems subway cars
and capitol halls
ain't so different.

We all step up
on some stupid shit,

never stopping
till people die broken
from bullets
or health care nonsense.

chocolate yellow cake

first,
the chocolate oxide.
is put through
crushers and grinders
to produce
pulped chocolate.

then processed
with acidity
to leech
the chocolate.

alternatively,
spin the chocolate around,
using gravity
and pressure,

mix with eggs, milk, butter, and flour,

and boom,
it is weapons grade chocolate cake,

ready to detonate
and destroy lives
when least expected.

Triolet for Brain

I wish you people would
stop driving into my car
his bumpers do not look like they should
I wish you people would
back out slowly. then, you could
admire him from afar,
i wish you people would.
stop driving into my car.

wishes for happy couple

i only wish
you understood
my joy for you
as real,

irrespective
of the truth
in my smile.

prayer in the reeds

When
words fail,

i can pour soul
into breath,

through

chest
neck
throat

to emerge past my mouth,

leap through
partnership of
bamboo and brass

to make
song
when i don't

have the heart

to sing.

postcards from the whoopin, part 4

Conversation before Bed

I turn over to
snuggle,

instead of you,

my notebook
lays open,
expectant.

"But..."

Shut up,
she says,

and fill my walls
with sweet words.

(1/20/2010)

postcards from the whoopin, part 3

(untitled)

Leaving it all
on the field of battle
is easier than

picking everything up
after losing

restoring
hearteyesvoice
tears

to proper
positions and
functions

for relaunch

is the last thing on your mind.

Battles cry a
daily supply,

but rest up.

It's not like we won't
still be fighting

when you're ready to come back.

1/19/2010

(for Rich, Molly, Calvin, Myra and others)

postcards from the whoopin, day 2

Batchelorism for Senate Dems

Why buy the cow, when
you can give away the whole
fucking store for free?

(1/19/2010)

postcards from the whoopin, day one

unfamiliar beds that don't hold my wife, part 1.

Even the alarm
clock on the strange table
is just like yours.

(1/18/2010)

we'll be right back...

hey all,

I've been in Massachusetts pitching in on the Senate race. I have written poems for the last couple days, but will post them (along with tomorrow's poem) tomorrow.

thanks,

mgt

Mighty Mouse's lament

I'm mean.
I've got two weeks of stubble,
and I'm tired of saving your bacon,
so you can burn me up again.

you promise me (you'll) change,
you won't give in to the Oil Can,
but you never can,
yes we

all need a hand now and then

I just feel like I'm the bandaid
for your small change.

Sigh. I'm a sucker. Fuck it.

Here i come...

ps: fuck you, Andy Kaufman.

To John Sloan, thanks for the women drying their hair

It's 1912
and somehow
I'm 13,

sneaking up to the roof
on Cornelia Street

has become my weekly adventure.

staring in wonder

at these long haired, curvy creatures.

Broadway can have its vaudeville acts
and the society balls can keep their bells,

i only wish to serve at the beck and call
of these ladies on who's roof i'd beg to dwell,

pray, maybe kill to dwell,

to see their tresses even closer,
maybe even feel their locks
slip through my fingers,
sandy blond seconds
through the minutes on those
ancient timepieces
that last for days.

would they be at ease with me?
or too at ease with the nice jewish kid
from down the block

my hair stands at attention
and knows what it wants

to be ran through by 10, 20,
30 delicate swords
carving initials in my cortex
with nails sharp and sweet

my hair's never been
dried

like that.

Shekhina: regrets, I'm unable to lunch today.

I've done nothing
worthy of an appearance.

nothing in these six days
to make the seventh
feel any sweeter.

The psalms hewed together
in tsfat

roll from my tongue
like bell peals.

when there's no work
how can there be rest?

how can this day be better,
best, king of the week!

when i feel just as meek
as every other day preceding or following,

unfit to announce your regal appearance,
and undeserving of an invitation.

so save your barburim for someone
who's earned it.

until i get my ducks in a row,
I don't know if I'll bother to show.

(with apologies to Cole Porter. For the title, anyway)

Signs of Life, W 14th and 6th Ave

No Brother,
the older Black man

said
as the ringmaster's smile
melted

from his marquee face.

Why don't you keep it
this time,

keep it and spend it on you.

Think of me
when you do it,

but this one time,
take care of yourself.

His cheek muscles bellowing

SEND IN THE CLOWNS! as

his eyes crumpled
at the sight of me
flailing at

the trapeze
in
ring
three.

drops on my face

desperately try to pile back
into clowncar ducts,

but gravity is against them

I'm sorry, my voice falters,

but he's already selling tickets
to the next show.

death by a thousand hesitations

delay
deny delay
debate delay
debate deny delay
question debate delay
agaonize question debate delay
deny delay
delay
denial.

I shot Haiti

It was so easy,
all it took
was rubbing piles of earth
together
till they shook
foundations that couldn't stand up
to may breeze in Central Park,
never mind
a five point nine, no
I shot Haiti.

For years, I've been planning it.

Suffocating it with all kinds of
restrictions,
forcing it to establish
zones where souls
were freely traded
for food for dinner wishes
and mickey mouse nike dreams

starving by determining
what crops it could grow
forcing it to pay off debts
it would never know
the end of,
supporting the removal
of elected officials,

yes
I shot Haiti,

by ignoring
the boiling of the earth,
knowing that poor countries
with a large amount of coast
will be hit worst

by not paying attention
to its problems
since the last time it was
in turmoil,

then deciding to finish it off
with a coup de grace
of battering soil,

yes,
I shot Haiti,

like I shot New Orleans
and countless places before

"I don't think anyone could've
anticipated"

that a moderate earthquake
would devastate a poor country
already left bereft,
by reaganesque policies,
of any coping abilities?

we shot Haiti.

cure-all

dour, perhaps but not
unique in the specific
cause of suffering;
knuckling down can be
baffling, especially when
aware of just how
critical it is.
Oblitherate what
neutralizes my insides.

Then add salt.

intercontinental friendship missile

inter continental friendship missiles
have a few things in common
with their ballistic brethren

they rain down light
and warmth
on their target

they seem to keep
their targets
from doing anything
too stupid

and even though
there's risk involved,
some folks stockpile
and count on these

inter continental friendship missiles

to send horrible shit away
in truly rare and wondrous
explosions of awesome might.

I'm generally about non-proliferation,
but with missiles like these,
I'd stockpile as many as I could,
with the hope that someday
they'll be interstate friendship missiles
or intra-borough friendship missiles.

Or if not,
they'll remember to let me
buy them coffee next time.

what?

inter continental friendship missiles
need rocket fuel too.

Rock Bottom

Hell is where
your friends can't help,
all the whiskey tastes like soot,
and you can't even hold your baby right
at night.

King of Fairway

while i don't generally
approve of monarchy
i do have to say

that it's sometimes nice
(therapist's advice)
to have things your own way.

if an onion isn't perfect,
back to the bin it goes,
sample cheeses in three dialects
keeping fromagers on their toes

breads and cakes and cookies
waiting to be tried
unhekhshered roasts on special
needing to be tied

fair trade and organics
in plentiful supply
and then the kosher cheeses
who's prices make me cry.

helpful staffers everywhere
that treat you with respect
friendly and often fair,
they'll tell what is dreck.

I decide what's in our cart
and what will be on our table,
not some oppresive jerkoff
lifted from aged fable,

now for this regal treatment,
we pay a sizable price.
but to take charge for a moment,
it really is quite nice.

Preserving Jazz with my niece

Eleanor,
ignore
where these other folks are clapping
and tapping
the floor,

and listen to the drummer.

hear them cymbals roar.

one TWO
three FOUR

listen to how he rolls the snare
outta nowhere
back into those beats

one TWO
three FOUR

we may be
the only TWO
(no, that nice older Black man makes)
three
clapping on FOUR

but we're the only ones

playing with the band.

first ode to angrybaby

thundering screams rend the air
as mere footsteps shake
the foundation of my apartment.

o angrybaby,
couldn't europe
with its strong unions
better healthcare
vacationtime
foods without gmos or
corn syrup
its close proximity
to scotch
belgian chocolate
and your grandparents,

have mellowed you out

before your return?

stampede toy piano notes
smacks of derisive peals of laughter

21 wand salute

I don't care
what anyone says, you
were magical.

whether unearthing
your deepest pain
to share poems

or bathing the whole community
in the glory of
a turn of your brilliant cloak

giving of yourself
endlessly
even at times when you could've
let someone else take the wheel,

and always making the contributions
of those after you
feel like we were giving the greatest gift,
when compared to your herculean lifting, our efforts
were drops of dew on a blade
of goose poop fertilzed grass.

and we were given the gift,
to follow in your wand brandishing footsteps

what poems will flow out of me now
that i can't share any more of them
with you?

what magic can be,
in brigadoon or otherwise,
in a world without you?

midterms

when 2010 is done,
will we hate it as much
as the previous one?

will motions to recommit ourselves
fall flatter than matzo flapjacks
made without love or compassion?

i'm tired of being told to wait,
wait,wait oh wait,
nevermindit's too fucking late

forget put up or shut up,
you've got to show up
before you can put up.

ellipse

trying to keep my feet open,
from becoming clenching fists,
to readily receive new ground.

Butler's beat

phrases
that dance rays of sunshine
down January avenues,

barbeque pancakes
my lingering 2009 blues
and leaves my ass
ready to strut through 2010

if i could just hear those runs again,
I'd put it all down and let it roll.

Dear 2009

Dear 2009

If you were only
a person, I could show you
what i really think