In the Fire

So, this is what it looks like after someone is caught in the fire. The smell comes first and stays with you. The Internet doesn't even have a thesaurus or dictionary big enough to find the words for the smell. No one ever wants to smell it but when they do, they'll never forget it.
Then the sight comes into view. It is inhuman. A mannequin spray painted black. Toes curled tight as if the foot was bound down like an ancient Chinese custom. Splits throughout the skin and then the face. What was once the face will never shake from my mind. Almost with extreme comical exaggeration; the face is horror and humor at once. It is all teeth and skull. No hair, no wrinkles, no real discernible expression, yes the desperation is unavoidable. Breathless and frozen; straining for air and release from the trauma.
The burned have no social class. For there are only slim scraps of clothing left, and the dead have no regard for dignity.
In this case the fist is what will follow me home. Laying there on his back, his arm frozen in the position he was baked alive in. His fist was raised up above his head. Almost victorious; though this day, there was nothing my brothers could do to have his rescue be a success.

Miles Davis Knows

Miles Davis Knows

The universe exists
in silent pause

before the solo kicks in

The Tree

I need to sit and recollect on this hill once again.

Van Houten & Cianci Street, 1943

A quartet plays
in the gazebo
at the center of Paterson
Tri-color bunting and streamers
line the roof and banisters
more on the red brick windows
black and white couples
dance in the street and square
kicking sideways at each other
mouths open in a song or yell
Statesmen stand around a plaque
smiles with suits and cigars
like a card game without a table
Townsfolk in simple clothing
stand at the curb
eating over-wrapped hot dogs
their children look up
anchored to balloons
the clarinet player in mid-solo
leaning back to bring the horn
up to the microphone
the drummers arms and cymbals
invisible from the beat
The sax players face
a smudge under a hat
the balding bass man
takes up half the stage
looks down through sunglasses
surprised at what he is doing
all of the colors and sounds lost
leaving only a second
found in a faded print.

The Park-Side Parrot Inn

The Park-side Parrot Inn
           Portland, ME

The spiraling stairway
mahogany handrail
gently turned pillars
steps worn to
high contrast grain lines
like a comb passed over wet hair
Light through dusty window
that watch the harbor grow

All of this was my subject
an attempt to photograph.
What developed was over-exposed

I hear your footsteps
as I check us out
I don’t want to go home.

Wiping a Fogged Mirror

When I took your photo

it was not to use against you

nothing erotic
nor devious

It was to hold onto how you looked

skin still humid from your shower

hair up in a towel

threadbare robe snug to your body

Where all you felt was refreshed

free of any bit of dirt you ever carried

of every lie ever told
clear of any mascara you thought needed

where it was finally just
your eyes

honest, innocent

and looking at me.

Nana’s Gift

For ages, the spirits of artists
have been filling heaven.
enhancing the gallery of clouds
filling the closet of colors, ideas and brush-strokes.
Even working with light in northern evenings.

The conventional white and blue, still popular,
images of random objects, animals, faces of lovers;
within the white and gray.

Sometimes they give us a blue canvas
with small faded clouds, far away,
like missed chalk-marks on a lazily cleaned board.
Other days, they overdo themselves,
leaving us to guess the colors we would see.
The sun blocked by a pile of afghans.

Today, the sky is a gift
from my grandmother
whispering to the spirits
“Try to add green, he loves green
and layer it, he bores easily”

The Rolling Rain

Rain on the rooftop out of our window,
the distant sound of applause, or gasps.

We sit dividing our belongings
the paintings yours
the candles mine
my bookshelf that held
some of your books

Mixed in with the thunder
the crack of the wood
Wind knocking a tree limb
onto the neighbor’s garage

You told me how I needed to learn
how to appreciate things in life more
that you were taken for granted.

On our air conditioner and windows,
the frantic sounds of rain jazz.
Untouched cigarettes burn as I sip tea
you drink water

Silent together in a half empty kitchen.
The storm door breaks off its hinges
shattering into a puddle in the backyard.

I turned off the final light as I left.

A Letter to My Eventual Child

I have done enough hating for the both of us
Criticized the way anthills are made
How there never is enough time to do things the right way

Have commented on people’s clothes
the way they walk in them
thinking my style and posture
was a reflection of a god

I have lost my temper and yelled
at an inanimate object
threatening it with kicks and curses
I have believed everything bad in the world has happened to me
That nothing can go right
if I am associated with it

I have thought it was the end of the world
to not be happy with my father
Ignoring that he is human and capable of error
I have found excuses for why
I never thanked my mother enough instead

Losing the one I love because
I complained about the song
Instead of dancing with her
A negative side to everything bad
and most things good

I am over it now
I have gotten all of this hating out of the way
So when you are born
and we are together
You will be a better person
than me

I thought I was sharing
the way I welcomed you in
watched you play with
my prized possessions

The cats I shared my apartment with
cuddling on your chest
and shedding onto your sweater

Songs that meant so much
each of them a soundtrack
a narration of my life
a perfect autumn day
a lovers change of heart
mistakes that domino into a mess

I thought I was sharing
the places that I found a secret energy
places I called home
a opening of solace in a forest
restaurants I could enjoy
and secrets I shared with only you

With each place
each song
each memory
a new prize was founded
a person I can enjoy these secrets with

But then it was no longer sharing
it was only evidence

You now brag to me
about how the songs sound and feel
how the book is written and movie ends
the meals taste with someone else
the air smells in that spot by the stream

now even the walls
that once surrounded
the bed I slept so well in
have been stolen from me
with one mistake

My secrets have turned into a sacrifice.

Three Years Short Of Two Decades

Gently grazing my leg as I walked by
uttering a soft meow hello
waiting for me to sit
so you could climb your way
from my lap to my back

Perched on my right shoulder
as if your listened while I cried over the many
losses and disappointments of living
half-closing your eyes
as you massage a purr against my neck
reminding me that you are still here

Relieving the every day stresses in my back
one step at a time as you tip toed across
curled up within the warm covers wrapped over me
I stared into the emerald field of your eyes
the sight fading as I gradually fell asleep

Slowly the lump grew
changing your position on my shoulder
your stance
your leaps
changing your meow
from hello to a cry

Everyday putting off your pain
out of selfishness and love
out of fear that I may have to live without you
coming home to blood marking where you have been
the inevitable is obvious

Holding you as you resist to the needle
you look at me with fear
I just stare in disbelieve of the actions
a red ribbon of blood sucks into the liquid
and then empties into you

An hour-like minute passes
you look up at me and cry
you lick my arm as your movement slows
leaving your tongue out as you slowly drift
from sleep to silence

I lay here staring into darkness
within the covers wrapped around me
wishing I had healed you months earlier
wishing I could undo the impossible
without you I cannot sleep

The Pallbearer

For some reason I remember the weather that day as sunny and cold. Paterson, New Jersey. In a Roman Catholic church I know I have been in a lot, but only remember break-dancing at the summer cook outs they had behind the school. Like most churches, this one was usually filled with elderly people, begging for mercy in their final years. Before they ascend into the fictitious hell or heaven they believed in. Today was slightly different. There was a very mixed crowd. Their ages ranging from three to eighty-three. All of their faces familiar. Some of them close family members; some of them I knew were related to me, even though I can’t remember how or when I last saw them. I was standing on the right hand side of the aisle. Six of us lined up, casket in hand.
Usually, when our family has these gatherings it would be the six brothers: my uncles Art, Jim, John, Mike, Bob, and my father, Tom. Today, I was promoted to pallbearer. The last time the brothers lined up like this my grandmother was between them, inside. That was seven years ago. This time Uncle Mike, Fat Mike as we called him, was in the center being carried. And with him passing in his sleep, I was promoted.
Most of the memories are a blur. I remember it started to rain when we finally drove to the church. A large dump-truck was driving in a rush and hydroplaned into the procession line, almost taking out Uncle Jimmy’s car.
As I stood in the aisle, I was uncomfortable, as I always am when I am around my father's family. I looked around for support. Most people just prayed there, looking up, probably asking God why he would take away Uncle Mike at such a young age. I glanced over at my grandfather. Surrounded by my aunts, he barely had any expression on his face, besides obvious grief. Much like how he looked when Nana passed away. I felt so frustrated for my grandfather. Your children should not pass-on before you do, especially when they’re only in their early-thirties.
The coffin was heavy, and cold. I think one of my uncles nervously made a joke about Mike’s weight. As we all did throughout his life, but only after he would have a comment for us.
The organ started. We all jumped slightly, knowing this would be the last contact with Mike we would have physically. Every one in the pews slowly rose. We slowly headed towards the double-doors. I hated the thought that this was the only way the family ever got together, yet I knew it to be the entire truth. I hardly ever saw my father, let alone the rest of the family. Everyone was quiet among the pallbearers. Except Uncle John, who quietly wept, almost letting go of the casket entirely. We struggled to keep Mike up as someone gave John a few words of support. We got to the stairs and paused to make sure everyone was ready for the last of the haul. Slowly the people from inside filed out and spread among the grass and sides of the staircase. We slowly positioned the coffin into the back of the hearse. As we let the car take on more of the weight I realized just how heavy it was. I heard my father weep something to himself as we pushed. When the end of the casket was in, I backed away.
My father turned to face me. I reached up to him and hugged him. My father rested his head in my shoulder and cried ‘God Damn It!’ We stood there for a minute or two. Now calm, my father let go and walked over to his other brothers. We then went to the graveyard and the party afterward. Most detail after that becomes a blur.
That was the first time my father ever cried to me like that. And the last time I can remember hugging him.

Do You Remember the Face Before You Were Born?

I had a dream, before I was born, of a face; the face of love and trust. I saw our lives, both apart and together; it was great and smelled like summer.

She took steps to understand me. She asked questions, and never expected. I felt safe with her, in her arms; she smelled like musk and tea tree.

I try to see the face now, I close my eyes, and although I can sense her,
even remember the touch I have never felt; I cannot see her face in my mind.

I know she exists here, she told me she would find me, if only for a moment.
I imagine how I will find her, where we will meet. I have often thought it would be shopping, for food or books.

I recall being in those places, suddenly feeling like I was being watched. I would look up and see someone walking away from me. As if, she might have just turned around. I wondered if she might be her.

There have been a few times; I was even convinced I found her. I would look into the eyes of my lover, in bed, or walking in sunlight. Trying to see if she would remember what she might have promised me before we were born. One thing was always missing; the touch, or the questions, or the smell.

I cannot imagine her face, and do not yet know her name. I am not even sure if it was just a dream. Nevertheless, I will continue on, walk with my head high.
Peeking around corners; not really looking so much as being aware, and hoping.

In a Almost Empty Room

She keeps saying
"It's not the way it looks."

As she paints black
over a used canvas,
once a blend of colors like a sunrise.
Auburns, reds, yellows, purples
all disappearing under the black.

She ties my ankles
to the legs of the chair
with frame hanging wire.
She says, "Run away".

More wire and she ties my wrists
to the arms of the chair.
With a small putty knife
she is cutting off my pants,
tearing open the seams
on the side of the legs.
"I want to see who you really are"

and eventually, I am naked.

She tells me not to look at her
takes a razor and cuts open my eyelids
Skin that was once part of me
thrown onto the once-sunrise-black.

Behind me now, I cannot see her.
Slowly my hair is being cut off
then my head is roughly shaved
"You are not who I fell in love with"

Scalp bleeding into wounds
that were once my eyes
"You decided long ago
that you would be
the one hurt most"

She just stands there
covered in bits of
hair, blood, denim and black.
Staring, until she walks out of the room.

All is silent,
but for my breathing,
and the dripping of blood
into my ears.

When she comes back into the room
she is holding the bottom half
of what once was a hollow statue.

Close to me now
"I'm trying to show you how much I love you"
She kicks the arm of the chair
I fall back
my head lands hard onto the ground
I taste blood and adrenaline.

I feel the air move
through what was once my eyelids as
she moves to stand over me
"I never meant to hurt you"
Through red and tears
I see her looking at me.

I believe her.

She lowers what is left of the statue into my chest
I smell acrylic and blood.
I see blood red fading to black.
And then I smell Her.

I try to forget
the pain, the past,
the smells of pain(t)
and I'm bound
laying here naked
bald and bleeding

The Cards Would be Good for Shaping Lines.

She was in the living room, watching The Sopranos. I felt uneasy, jittery, and I wanted to do something else, but knew this was what she wanted at that time. I got up and paced a little. I walked past the laptop and realized I could do something to cheer her up and help her.
She had been trying to build up her business and she was working from home. She moved recently and never got new business cards. I decided to take the initiative and get some business cards made for her from a place I knew that did it online for a decent price. I used an old card she had laying around as a template and built her a card from the ground up. I used a good picture of her I took recently and updated her info on the card.
I waited until the episode she was watching was over and then I called her into the office to look at the laptop. She came over, asked what it was. I explained to her that it was her new business card. That she had been saying she needed new ones. She asked how much they were and I told her price wasn't important, because I was going to have them made for her. That it was my gift to her in the name of helping her continue to build her business up.
She looked at the screen some more, asked to change one of the colors; I did this with a click. Then she stared at the screen for a minute or two. I watched as the expression on her face changed. Tears welt up in her eyes and she asked me why I did this. I told her because she was important to me and I wanted to help. She became more upset and got up and hugged me, saying that I was too good to her and thanked me. I felt so good to make her so happy that she cried. It wasn't until later on, a couple of weeks later that I understood why she got so upset.
She wasn't crying because she was happy. She was crying with guilt. I was good to her, and did a nice thing. Meanwhile, when I was not around she had been lying to me about who she was with, what she was doing and where she was going. She was using cocaine. She was cheating on me with a person she claimed was a good friend. She was breaking my heart. To see proof that I didn't deserve this; that the guy she was taking advantage of and deceiving was actually still really into her and being good to her, while she was not good to him. Well, the guilt overwhelmed her at that moment and she got emotional.
To realize this later on ruined that memory. I had thought I made her that happy, happy enough to cry. Instead, I made her realize her guilt.

The Voice of an Old Friend

When you hear the voice of an old friend, you are with them. You can taste them, smell them once again. You can feel the blanket under your back as you lay together staring into wishing flowers floating in the blue above. You can feel the blades of grass poke you on your side as you lean towards her. The smell of her hair and perfume mixes with the smell of the phone in your hand. You instantly feel younger again, the world is newer. You remember the time you got caught doing things in her back yard. Water balloons and garden-hose fights. You can taste the cigarette on her breath as you kissed her for the first time. You can remember when you first placed your hand up her shirt and how embarrassed you were that your pants were sticking out that way. You can feel the tingle that dances up your back in the form of goose bumps when she didn't laugh at the bulge and instead placed her hand on you. You can remember riding your bike for miles to see her, sneaking behind the church to look and touch at each other naked. Remember how the phone calls were so long thy blended from one day to the next. Remember her other lovers' names. Wonder if she remembers what you were like then as much as you remember her. The world felt small then and you were never going to lose touch. Everything silly you did then would be more silly now; but it wouldn't mind being sillier now. If that meant being with her, to feel younger again. To feel the energy of the newness of it all. To forget the stress of life, and how you must be careful with everything. You were innocent devils sinning all the way the basement for clumsy lust. Clumsy lust that weren't ready for, but gave you stories to brag about to friends drunk. Wonder if they count you as one of the ones that mattered or another name rewritten into every new address book. Just in case, they need to call and remember, like this.

In The Basement Apartment

Mom appears through the apartment door
holding her nose crying
blood dripping down her waitress white shirt
the baby-sitter gets her ice
a towel for the bleeding
she is cursing and crying
I hear the rumble of my fathers' Malibu outside
the baby-sitter helps her take her coat off
What happened Mommy, did Daddy hit you?
the engine's fumes billow into the window
noise and smells adding to the confusion
Mom pays the baby-sitter from her black apron
food stains wet from ice and blood
she says she got mugged
If you got mugged Mommy, call the police
I hear my father pull away
Mom tells the baby-sitter she could go
sits down on the couch
I crawl up on her lap
pull back her hair
wet with tears and sweat
Don't worry Mommy, I'll protect you

In My Living Room

You asked me
to pluck your eyebrows
and I did.
I held you face and neck in my hands
Our legs overlapped one another.

Your hair over the back of my hand,
neck stretched and relaxing with your breath;
I was worried about hiding
my shaking hands.
I could feel your breath on my face.
and I was scared.

Your eyes closed in trust,
head tilted back, neck exposed.
Waiting for each little tinge of pain
as hair slightly lifts skin
and releases.

You opened your eyes|
looked into mine.
I tried to tell your eyes
with my eyes,
That I wanted to hold you closer.
They didn’t answer

Hairs all over my shirt and skin.
I wished to have us hold each other
until every hair had re-grown
until what was plucked away
grew back.

Vignettes from an Old Movie

It was like vignettes from a movie
The way that morning was to me
flowing from dreaming to awake and back

I wake to feel you next to me
the night was cool and quiet
I could hear you breathing and move
putting my arm around you, afraid you might wake up

Awake again, you were in the shower
a feeling of comfort came over me
I was going to join you, but remembered
we are not like that, anymore

Then I woke up to the hair dryer
I wanted to get up and see you
watch you get ready for work
the monotone sounds droned me back to sleep

Then I woke up to warmth
of your face near mine
your scent came close to me
‘lock the door on your way out’
and I felt lips kiss my forehead

at that moment
I thought you might still love me

The next time I woke up
it was to your door closing
I heard your cat crying good bye
as you went downstairs
closing the door to get outside

I went to the window
to watch you get in your car
thought of the dinner we made
f how I massaged you and held you
of that moment with you over me
not knowing where the dreams started

Kind and Denied

I was in the DMV. I had been sitting there for a little while. This was my first time in the new DMV. This era where you are only there for an hour or less. I was used to the stereotypical image of back when it was a prison term to have to go there.
I brought a book of my own, expecting to wait for a while, but I ended up people watching. I've always enjoyed looking at strangers. Guessing their stories and histories, and studying their behaviors.
There was an African-American woman with an infant who had come in and sat down close to me. I saw her and thought to myself how annoying it was going to be to have a crying baby screaming across from me. I got a look at the baby's face. The little girl was beautiful; with huge and curious eyes and cute chubby cheeks. She was very small yet alert, looking around at all of us admiring her. I watched her movements. How her mother held her close and with pride. Kissing her every so often, and constantly primping her collar or bonnet, not coming off as slightly annoyed for having to sit here. She had her child to distract her from the scene.
An older heavy set man with a red face and too much clothes on came walking in, heading in our direction. This was fall, a slight chill in the air, yet this guy looked like he had enough layers on to march along the Northern Swiss countryside. Well overdressed for the season; he took off his outer jack and hung it over his shoulder. He had a red face, you couldn’t tell if was red from the cold, or from alcohol. He walked passed us and went to sit down.
He noticed the little girl and stopped. She turned and looked at him and he gave a little wave hello. Her mother’s face beamed with pride that her child was such a beacon for such attention. He asked how old she was, her mother stated 10 months.
‘She is adorable’ he said and he leaned over and touched her sleeve to tap her and play with her. He mothers face suddenly turned into a look of discomfort. He made giggling child-like noises as jiggled her arm though the coat. Then he went to touch her face and her mother’s arm intuitively shot up and covered the child’s face. The only word she could get out of her mouth was ‘No’! The old man’s arm flinched back towards him. “Oh, I’m sorry; I just wanted to touch her…’ He motioned to touch the infant’s face again and the woman turned her body away from the man, covering the child’s face entirely ‘I said no, NO’. She then reached for the man’s arm with her forearm and looked up at him in disgust. ‘Are you crazy? You don’t go just touching people’s face’.
He stood there, awkward and uncomfortable. ‘I just… I’m sorry… I…’ and he turned to look for the seat he was about to take. It had already been taken. He gathered himself together and walked around the other way and continued on out of my vision.
The woman sucked her teeth and looked around for support and amazement. The people around us all seemed to give off the attitude that they also found his actions to be unusual.
I felt bad for the guy. I fully understood where the mother was coming from. People don’t just go putting their hands on the faces of stranger’s infants. But I think he was just naive in his actions. Obviously the woman was well within her right, but I couldn’t help feeling embarrassed for him.
The image of a stranger appreciating a child’s innocence and beauty quickly changed into an act of some kind of accidental bio-terrorism.