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?

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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.