He came here to be model.
That plastic hair, that perfect scruff.
He came here to showcase polo shirts
and boxer briefs in staged scenes
of friends at the beach or a
rooftop barbecue.
he is only wearing sweat pants and
a blue graphic tee as we ride the
1, south towards the West Village.
But maybe this is staged as well,
and tomorrow's billboard will be
this same scene: gray sweatpants,
incomparable ennui, the orange seats
of this dirty subway, and an older Chinese woman,
her eyes closed, her hands folded.
Human accessories.
Critics will marvel, how her quiet defeat
brings out his eyes.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Thursday, April 5, 2012
While proctoring a math test
Like children with blocks,
they take each problem and hold it in their hands.
They complain about how dull the colors are, how
sharp the edges and corners are.
They press the blocks against them until they bleed.
They show me the blood.
They say it is my fault.
Their minds are not constant. Their attention
ebbs and flows like the Atlantic.
They are, in the same moment, both cresting
and being swalloed whole.
They say they can't breathe.
They say it is my fault.
And it is.
And I will choke and drown them all until the child that cannot is finally lifeless on the floor of this place. The child that can, peeling off banana skin and rising (some fruit phoenix) to the task.
they take each problem and hold it in their hands.
They complain about how dull the colors are, how
sharp the edges and corners are.
They press the blocks against them until they bleed.
They show me the blood.
They say it is my fault.
Their minds are not constant. Their attention
ebbs and flows like the Atlantic.
They are, in the same moment, both cresting
and being swalloed whole.
They say they can't breathe.
They say it is my fault.
And it is.
And I will choke and drown them all until the child that cannot is finally lifeless on the floor of this place. The child that can, peeling off banana skin and rising (some fruit phoenix) to the task.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
On Turning 19
As professors, we feel older than most people our age. We say that we choose our profession because it keeps us young, but the liver spots, the failing eyes, and our sore backs are constant reminders that though we may feel it, we are, in fact, not young. We are distinguished, aged, experienced, and a slew of other euphemisms that belie our envious souls.
Today one of my students turned 19.
19 is a high school novel to me, picked up once every few years and wedged back on the shelf between Wuthering Heights and The Jungle. A book I never read during those formative years. A story I cannot put down.
19 is an unnamed port i once tasted at a party. It is the hundred bottled I have since had, trying to find it again. it is the color, the weight, the wood, and the fruit. the cup of my tongue, the stem of my throat.
19 is an open field. there are no trees, no people, no animals, and no memories. There is only the affirming reality of the grass beneath me, the open-mouthed imagination of the sky above, and the sweet air I breathe somewhere in between.
Today one of my students turned 19.
I said, "Happy Birthday," with a smile.
But he doesn't know I'd just assume cut him if I thought he might bleed time.
Today one of my students turned 19.
19 is a high school novel to me, picked up once every few years and wedged back on the shelf between Wuthering Heights and The Jungle. A book I never read during those formative years. A story I cannot put down.
19 is an unnamed port i once tasted at a party. It is the hundred bottled I have since had, trying to find it again. it is the color, the weight, the wood, and the fruit. the cup of my tongue, the stem of my throat.
19 is an open field. there are no trees, no people, no animals, and no memories. There is only the affirming reality of the grass beneath me, the open-mouthed imagination of the sky above, and the sweet air I breathe somewhere in between.
Today one of my students turned 19.
I said, "Happy Birthday," with a smile.
But he doesn't know I'd just assume cut him if I thought he might bleed time.
Burn the Stables
Burn the stables.
Lock the horses inside.
Imagine their eyes
as the fire climbs-
Their heavy hooves
six feet high.
Some will die of smoke.
Some will be burned alive,
but imagine the twisting muscle
dancing in the pyre,
as the flames rise higher,
as the flames devour.
Lock the horses inside.
Imagine their eyes
as the fire climbs-
Their heavy hooves
six feet high.
Some will die of smoke.
Some will be burned alive,
but imagine the twisting muscle
dancing in the pyre,
as the flames rise higher,
as the flames devour.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
My Best Pick-up Line
So I said, "Sure,
you bring the clouds,
and I'll bring my
blanket of sky,
and we will lie
down outside of Eden
on the warm sands
of our fathers,
on their backs and
bellies, their bones
and blood, burnt
to a black sand
like volcanic beaches,
that are still warm.
And we can talk," I said,
"Talk about the curves
of rivers and how
from the moon, the world
must look more geometric."
And between angles
and angels and the
mathematics of both,
we may see the
Quaker sun dip into
the responsible horizon,
pushing our silhouettes away
from us like decks of cards,
and I'll say, "Hey, why don't
we stab up the ceiling
with stars, curl up like it's cold,
and talk about what must be
shining on the other side.
you bring the clouds,
and I'll bring my
blanket of sky,
and we will lie
down outside of Eden
on the warm sands
of our fathers,
on their backs and
bellies, their bones
and blood, burnt
to a black sand
like volcanic beaches,
that are still warm.
And we can talk," I said,
"Talk about the curves
of rivers and how
from the moon, the world
must look more geometric."
And between angles
and angels and the
mathematics of both,
we may see the
Quaker sun dip into
the responsible horizon,
pushing our silhouettes away
from us like decks of cards,
and I'll say, "Hey, why don't
we stab up the ceiling
with stars, curl up like it's cold,
and talk about what must be
shining on the other side.
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