poem a day it is. soundtrack. exit clov. saw them in concert last night, absolutely bomb. now i need to go pick up my laundry. toodles. yes, i just said toodles. you got a problem with that?
will be slamming at the bowery poetry club for their college slam tomorrow afternoon at 6. would LOVE to see you.
April 1st
ain’t want to be no hero, buy no farm
sisyphean remembrances
are penance for our momentary hubris,
the pyrrhic nature of our commitment
i took showers three, four times
a day to scour
the smell from my skin, the grit
that inevitably infiltrated
its way past coverings, wedged
itself where the straps pressed, the water
like balm on parched tongue
in a mouth dry from desert and ‘drenaline..
trying to draw comfort
from rumination, like humility
from a superpower, i draw
from the infertile grounds
upon which we lie
false foundations
falling away, the center no longer holding.
there will be debate
about blame, when it was no longer enough
and motivation, when esprit de corps
became the only tenable connections
drawing us firm.
duty, both weight and impetus
for boys with set eyes
and stubborn backs.
funerals for heroes, and the cowardice
of not wanting to be one.
april 2nd
small favors and tragedies
ball missing the net by a breadth’s breath
in a grand street pick up game
among immigrants who share
no language, no customs
nothing but their foreignness
and the comfort of pirouettes and epees,
the unspoken eloquence
of the game.
having no papers
for the first jay in months
after the worst day in years
… the evening before
a surprise drug test
losing the number
of the pretty girl
destined to break his heart
snapping your ankle, all the months
of recovery… just before
you stepped
onto a mine rigged
to take out your platoon
the train doors closing abruptly
in the hopeful eyed boy’s face, his mouth
twisted in a moue at his tardiness
as he fingers the ringbox
stuffed as deeply as he could
into the bottoms of his pocket
even as the woman who he is to see
goes over the words over and over again
till their sharpness wears down,
“i don’t love you anymore.”
Tags: love, missing limbs, poetry, sacrifice, salt