Spoken Lullaby (East 56th Street)

Time keeps ticking as
cars keep driving past my window as
girls keep laughing on my bed as
the playground on east 56th stays young.

But it’s not—there is no more
innocence unless you are talking
about that which lies in those little
shoes that come play by day.

Because then the bigger boys
come lean by night, they slap
palms in exchange of goods and
blood and they roll the dice to
what they would call in Rome “dogs”
but here with the good old boys it’s,
snake eyes peering up from the dirty concrete.

Time keeps ticking as
the suits straighten up their ties as
stories creep through my head as
I have had enough noise.

I climbed into my closet just to
be alone with myself for a while
so that the noise from her story, and
his story and hers too wouldn’t,
couldn’t keep chasing after me.

I fell asleep on the floor dreaming
a world of fantasies where I’m no
longer eating bowls of travesties—

but time keeps ticking as
the dice still rattle and peer as
the playground with the children,
the— blood,
the—good old boys,
those—snake eyes.

The exchange.

Time keeps ticking as
my voice spills out sweet and
I speak this lullaby about
east 56th street.

love letters

Sometimes pen scraping paper
sounds so harsh it has no soft
overtones, only dirty implications.

But this is a love letter that I write
with the best intentions and
thoughts worthy of good soap.

And there must be days where
you wonder if i am to full of
words to speak to you-

There must be days where you
follow my shadow through that
door and when it closes on your
foot, you good shoe, when I do
not answer the bell-

I cannot answer the bell because
it’s an elite society that only lets
the few through.

There is no room at the
table for both me and you.

But I love you.
Really, I do.

holy interlude

i missed you too much today,
it is never like this.

no, no,
i do not like this.

the bright lights turn white to form a big blank
page across which the memory waltz in picture play--

no, no,

look, there is that bridge, no, yes, and look,
there sit you and i.

no.

i prefer to only see it when i close my damn
eyes, not like this.

i must paint it black again to a scene where there is nothing
but a fleeting dream or too.

to one where there is merely a woman who sits
and types out the daily news,

her red nails clacking away before she throws the papers up
to waiting angels hand.

i prefer those days to these.

the light flickered through holy stained glass, i put the pen back in my
shirt and prayed up.

With Her

ashes fell from her bent cigarette and
would not go out where i stepped,
but we did not burn up.

on the back lot certain things we
discussed. carefully, i turned the thing
i pretend is my wedding ring.

"what do you think we'll be when we stop
growing up?"

do you think we'll be inside when the rain
shows up.

no.
oh.
her gray smoke went into the air real slow.

sink or swim?

you and i will learn how to get by.
women like us- well. well.

well. i think i will have some regrets.
there is a poem in that cigarette.

Hollywood

why do those streets shine?

because it's those broken glass hearts
that sink into the pavement when the people
shatter.

meanwhile, the holly babies continue their
empty chatter at the coffee shop everyone
knows is run by hispanics but it was
the white man who posed for VOGUE--

this is the world you crave at night--
so seduced by this culture who's sins
are on too tight, and when i say how can
you want what you see you ask me,

haven't you ever had fantasies?

yes, but on tuesdays i separate stories
from dreams (and the nightmares in-between)

look.
smile, holly baby.

so you know why they shine?

sin is in. sparkle cheap. it's all those quarters,
thoughts, and dimes. that broken heart glass.

you know, you know,
hollywood jazz

early morning

we sat facing each other at the kitchen table,
and i listened lightly as she told me of when her
grandmtother would push her into the shower door.

you see i had a rough time, she said to me,
her eyes to the floor and then she picked up her teacup.

and i will not ask more, for it is only 5 am everything cannot
spill out into the yawning tiles so soon.

the rest of the confessions shall be professed,
as noon dances through that window, she began to cry.

wanting to look away I cast my eyes
to a seemingly painted sky,

it all took place early this morning, when the innocence still
shown behind her eyes, before bowing to the evening stars,

the devils charge.

self-same

self-same

yesterday you fell asleep
on my shoulder with your hot
breath, the coffee in your cup grew
colder, but you slumbered on,
move on.
daddy loves me (yes he do),
daddy loves me (daddy loves who?)--
move on-- daddy hates me (indeed).
daddy hates me (indeed).
move on.
do you know what i thought,
while i was playing with your hair?
(there are muses everywhere.)
yes. today my voice rings falsetto--
move on. (alright)
daddy left me, daddy left me (bastard),
should I call him father.
(why call him anything at all.)
my dreams were discolored,
i woke with a start, i tried not to wake
you too, i put the cover back on us,
i'm getting good at being discreet.