Monthly Archives: January 2013

 

 

Vallejo!

Insuffle-moi ta peine

 

You drove a cross into days

that tasted like eyebrows

strangled your pain around syllables

for him, over there

the one who doesn’t see you

and    for     parasites like me

 

today I want to be sad

and so I am

I want to pour sadness over my head

from the swill bucket of sadness

and after I’ve doused myself

I’ll light a match and set sadness on fire

…I’m so tired…

 

I’ll think of the monk and his immolation

I’ll think of a planet in its isolation

I’ll think of the crushed wing of the butterfly

I’ll think of the salesman’s smile, the girl who didn’t cry

I’ll think of what I don’t remember

I’ll remember to close the door

open it again

 


New Year’s Day

 

 

there was a question I wanted to ask the barista

the one with the sharp elbows, tattooed forearms

cleopatra eyes

and ink black pig-tail that stuck out straight

who instinctively knew I pinched pennies

and did not take offense

who had somehow gathered a world of worldliness into her thin body

more than I could ever hope for

and a light-fingered humanity come from scraping by and making do

who knew how to be a type without a crack

still, I wondered what there was when the eye-makeup came off

the question doesn’t matter anymore

“what would you have been in 1908?”

and I?

 


Bucharest

 

“It was worse than 1984!” I was told

“Icicles on the inside – that’s how cold!”

Early in the morning a wagon turning

down a back alley my eye discerning

the gypsy ironmonger

 

“You’ll see a cow in the middle of Burcharest, I swear!”

“I think I had a happy childhood” he said with care

The poet has a country villa by the Donau,

A neat turning of the back on Lenin and Mao,

Where he entertains friends

 

If you touch this lamb, it’ll bring you good luck

You touched it, so pay! – and I’m stuck

Little piles of sunflower seed shells on the train,

Inchishi Ushile the ethereal refrain,

In the corners where people stand

 

Old folks, like silent gnomes, stand at attention

They can’t live on their pension

Some sit on a ledge here and there

Others get in the way on the metro stairs

but they don’t put out their hand

 

The grime and the gray of the blocuri

Have a poetry and allure

Old Nicu, in the wheelchair, worked in a pretzel factory

I listened to his story

and changed his euros into leis

 


Imagined Poverty

 

You are six or seven

small enough to fit into a cardboard

box.  The rooftop is an expanse

of concrete, empty except for the

box against the parapet, set on its

side wherein you sit, huddled.  You

in your red winter coat with the

fake sheep fur on the inside –

your brother has one just like it – and

your boy’s bowl cut.  You look

out on the blank concrete, you can’t even

see over the edge.  The wind blows cold

but there’s nothing to blow there save

the flaps on the box.  You hug yourself

and imagine you are poor.

All you have in the world: the box,

the concrete, the cold wind.

What nectarous pity you feel

for the you who are poor, this

feeling you squeeze from your imagination –

you know both pain and pleasure.  Is life and

intimation of life.

 

 

 


for Aaron Swartz

 

 

I had seen the headlines

suicide

some kind of computer whiz kid

twenty-two (they got it wrong they always get everything wrong)

 

and then heard the story second-third-fourth hand

on a leisurely walk for celebratory coffee

(but of course you knew the world would go on without you)

I exclaimed my share of “how terrible how terrible how awful so young”

and again at the cafe

we talked about you, excoriated the prosecutor woman. . .

 

you wanted to punch a hole, just a small one

to let the world breathe

but didn’t you know, fresh air is poison

 

every youth finds out and grows old – or dies

you died

 

what avalanche did you hear roaring behind you

you saw the ghouls and the insane at the helm, didn’t you

it always does paralyze one

 

Aaron Swartz, I didn’t know you

but today and tomorrow I will mourn you