Rocka My Soul In The Bosom Of Abraham

What did Abraham do?

He did what all other fathers
since him are striving to do.

Abraham just bought a color TV.

The color TV looks right
with the tones of the air in Brooklyn.

Abraham likes to walk about.

He likes the city at twilight.
The orangeness, those ancient
kinds of
things.

Now Abraham has been watching his TV.

So Abraham goes home to his wife
and her Salisbury dinners
and the cool truths of the evening
news,
but then Abraham has a previous wife
he loves more too.

He imagines her ghost will trail him
through
to his last breaths.

Their son has gone off to college
by the good hills and woods and
fresh air
of rural Pennsylvania.

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Love New York Love

Love New York Love

Oh, I’ll never love her again.

I mean I’ll certainly love her,

but I won’t LOVE her.

Not like I did with the cool air
blowing in through the window
onto the strained meow of her
old gray and black tabby cat
sprawled across the small kitchen table
in that sixth floor apartment in Brooklyn.

I’ll never know Spring like that again.

It won’t come for me again,
breaking the sunrise over the M train
traversing the Williamsburg Bridge.

These are the molecules of the city,
hormones of the corpus,
a man’s firm body atop the softness of
a woman,
where the land and ocean gather,
monuments constructed
and memories are left to their stillness.

Give My Love To Kmart

All my life
I’ve just been waiting for the woman to
go to Kmart with.
Fuck The French Room. Fuck Tavern On
The Green.
Fucking Kmart on a Sunday morning
with red slurpees in both our hands
and our other mortal earthen hands
clutched together
holding on to
each other,
like stones in the amphitheater at Ephesus
clutching onto wildflowers,
we’d be made from love formed
so many eons ago.

Between The Floors

Our apartment was rickety and impoverished,
almost like an old Michigan lake house
perched above a block in the City.

The glass in the windows had fallen downwards
over the years
to bend the view of the street below and the
twinkling lights of Manhattan in the distance.
The wood of the frames was rotten.

Below, they cooked greasy Thai noodles and
you could smell sweet curry and grilled eggs
in the afternoon when trying to nap between
orgasms on a Saturday.
Cars always stuttered and honked and
scented everything in charcoal.

Above, on a wooden plank floor painted with
lime latex paint was a cheap twin futon bed
where I had her every night to every morning
from the summer of 2004 to the spring of 2005.

The curves of her body filled my hands like
the moon in the night sky.
I breathed her fertile scent. It lived on my
lips and hands. I would go off to work a
mindless job, she still lived in my nose.
She helped me be mortal and still lives in
my dreams after all this is left for the dead,
the dead between the floors that scatter the
wasted hopes of a city in squalor, coughing on
the honesty of sunrises.

There Isn’t

There isn’t anything, any day, any freighter
to the Sea

There isn’t

any night was born to be in winter

Over Crown Heights, Brooklyn

her laughter drops upon the dead gray stairs
I first helped her

to the rooftop the cold ass air crimped her lips

with every puff of her cigarette

she let go to the city what would become poetry
in an ancient, everlasting moment

the manner of stone

that frames me, gives me farmhouses, trees,
New England mountains and orchards

that I remember

There isn’t, there isn’t anything, anywhere, in the
schoolyards back there

The Unremembered Entrance

Metropolitan Ave

I don’t even remember the front doorway

I don’t remember where the mailbox was

I remember the clangs of the heels on her boots
that first night

following her up the hard stairs to fuck

I remember the stairway would echo

and make her appear so womanly with that momentum

always

everyday she passed in this stairway it was
like this, kind of like an old hospital

I remember waiting for her like a dog waiting to be fed

I could smell her scent when she was two floors below

but I don’t remember any features of that stairway
or front doorway

I do remember the outside of the door was caked up layers of
black paint with graffiti and spray paint all over it

I remember lots of specs of silver and one loud zig zag mark
in pink

I halfway recall the door handle was brass and scratched up
very badly

I entered that door about twelve hundred times between
august and march

one time was after I picked up a winter care package
from my mother
at the post office around the corner

she sent us flannel snowman sheets

People Of The Word

People change. People never change.

People change.
I’ll love you forever.
People never change.
I won’t love you anymore.
I love you forever.
If you haven’t matured.
No, I’m talking about maturity.
We are closer to death
once we’re born into life.

Love is always being unborn or
unbore by mortal ones.
Unloaded and let go of.
You do portend to stop bearing.

Love is like death.

In the empty Brooklyn warehouse.

It’s going back around the corner
into the brick building
by that intersection,
back into time,
back into the streets of Portland,
up the western hills.

People change.
Or, people never change.
Or, people change.

In the empty Brooklyn warehouse.

Love Even In A Can Of Pepsi

I’m craving Pepsi.
I’m wanting your hair.
Your hair’s the same color as Pepsi.
I never crave Pepsi, but
I do frequently want your hair.
Especially, these days.
Want its scratchy texture on my chest
when I wake up.
Its scent of lotion, dairy and small
summer flowers from the islands of Scotland.
Now, I’m craving an ice cream float
with you in a slightly cold Brooklyn apartment
on a Saturday afternoon in November,
some rain clouds off in the distance
drifting outside the window.

We walk towards them later that evening.
The sunset flutters in shredded layers
of orange and pink, colliding with
the grays of the storms and the navies of night
across the old brick buildings and
the new high-rise condos.

We walk holding hands.
We’re older than the others who do this.
Our love makes us young at heart.
It makes us courageous and compelling.
It makes us good examples.

Our eyes have always had a certain kind
of conviction when you put us together.

Are You, My Gloxx Tower Baby

Gloxx Tower (Williamsburgh Bank Building)

Have you been to Gloxx Tower, Baby

Where the Head Capitalist lives up high

In Roman decor

Have you sipped from the crystal

That whittles the soul from the mind

Have you been with the collector of numbers

On evenings

And drank of the wines of Bourgogne

Or
Perhaps
You’ve only brushed the Tower at its bellows
Like all the good commoners do
Rushing on their way across Brooklyn
In subway cars
These alms to the American dream
At the feet, of course, of what the
Capitalists weave

Have you indulged or worshiped or even now
are you sleeping

Sleep sweet in the fields of Umbria

The timbers of Iberia have been lumbered
To carry the motive all across the planet

To alter our DNA forever

Oh, my Gloxx Tower Baby
Your DNA was once human

Animal Cracker Vicissitudes

animal crackers

I messed with my animal crackers down by the subway.

Messed with my animal crackers.

In fleeting snow, on melting mornings.

On cold steel rails on the platform.

Days when it came down cold.

And the furnace heat rose from the rooftops.

Gray were my feet, woolen, and dampen too I believe.

Do I believe.

I messed with my animal crackers by the cathedral yards.

Where the ships come in from the ocean.

And rust is a color that dances with day.

Let me carry. Let me carry.

Let me carry this winter away from my blood.

Put the animal crackers into my teeth.

There was a tavern in Alphabet City

where I dreamed of the vicissitudes
that held all these people.

I watched and saw it fall from the sky.

A burning skybird, fallen down into desert.

In the new century, there were only children left

and the start of what the lark calls liberation.

That is why I messed with my animal crackers.

So many years ago.