Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Paragraphs Of Summer

Writing my own watered down history

Outside of Rome in the shade

The ribbons of sunlight

Edge off my sweater

The colors in my eyes are getting heavier

And this once sad lunch

Of lemon and vanilla

Is just another letter

In this paragraph of summer

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

An Amsterdam Square

Let’s rework the plan of how I got here

And the stream of people

Lined up and packed in squares

Tightly in streets thinner than they should be

And I can tell already

That this is going nowhere

And I could stop and lay on the dirt

And beg strangers for matches

But that’s just not going to happen

And I’m sorry

As I’ve said in different words

And here in different places

We can write them mostly thin

Like a breath or word that’s spoken

Or a stare that’s broken before it begins

And I am here

But getting nowhere

You do realize, don’t you?

We can play guitar and almost sing

But I don’t think that means anything

On To Something

European cigarettes are much stronger

On a river that pours out beneath me

Like frozen smoke melting in the sun

Quite loudly

Even and odd have different meanings

And the tall ceilings tell me I should call you


And I got an hour at least

Before I have to fight the urge to walk outside beneath the black stars

That I stole from some song I must have heard on the plane

Walking around in circles

Any other day could have been rain

But not today and not yesterday

European sunsets are much longer

On a river that tries to defeat me

Depending on how you look at it

It can be unrelenting

But I think I’m on to something

When I say and think and know

That this red stain is not blood on my shirt cuff

But wine from a plastic cup

Beading thin tonight

But lighter than I would have expected

Or put these mirrored coins on

If I had a chance

And I almost saw you in the mirror

And I know you are asleep

And I know I should be but honestly this smoke is new to me

And it keeps me up with my silvered cup

And my coffee stained shirt sleeves

From this morning

I might dip this cigarette in this wine

Because it’s not strong enough tonight

And I think I’m on to something

When I say I might

Monday, July 4, 2011

Black Butterflies

Stepping off the train

I saw the black butterflies

And the wind-carried rust

With the tired lain-over graffiti

Speaking rounded spoonfuls

Beneath us

And the white and brown rocks

Smooth over the repetition

That is not quite perfect

Like the lily pads

And the handles on the bridge

I wish I could grab but can’t

Missing A Train

Beside the yellow train

The cigarettes stack themselves

Below smoke I’ve never coughed before

This man is getting old

But crosses his legs like he no longer cares

A small group of construction workers

Change the direction of the light

With their yellow hats

Under straight taught cables

And rain watered charcoal

Are cigarettes black on the train tracks

And it’s been a while since I missed a bus

But this smoke bending beside us

Is curious enough for this train to pass by


In the deep weight of the gray air morning

Primary Colors

I don’t understand the white lines in the road

But I do understand the primary colors

License plates with two letters right next to each other

A triangle inside a square

I don’t understand the stripes on the lamppost

But I do understand the primary colors

Sidewalks with two lovers right next to each other

Box-like cars like puzzle pieces

And the intermittent radio

Cutting between stacked bicycles

And deep set chairs

Out in the street

And here in the car

I do not understand the white lines

They draw for each other

But I do understand

The primary colors

Stranded At Schilphol

Stranded at Schilphol

With some Asian girl in a beret

The coffee is two sizes too small

Waiting on the corner

At a round table

And a big screen

The Dutch just rearrange the letters

I can do that

And drink my coffee and add vowels

I skiipd de lunch

None of the coffees have covers

It spills on my hand

And burns my tongue

So that I cannot taste my packed granola

And apple pies from home

I think I might like this place

Friday, July 1, 2011

Black Hair

The girl in front of me has the black hair I’ve been waiting for

That she must have died red at some point

The girl in front of me

Who just got in the van

She keeps turning her head

Only slightly to the corners of her eyes

She smells like strawberry shampoo

The water bottle is half full

Shaking with the van

Skipping over union central

Dry ice and gravel

I haven’t seen her eyes

But I know they must be brown

Though her green shirt may lift them

If only slightly

We picked her up in Chinatown

Where the bricks are painted gray and brown

And spray painted red

Reflecting billboards and cars

Someone left their signature

And how to reach them

Wanted for attempted murder at Dodger stadium

She has a little too much make up on

And tilts her hear back

Towards the pink buildings in the purple sky

Her hair folds over the back of her seat

She’s wearing a double watch

The buildings turn to red

Passing a topless bar

And stacked garbage bags onto the highway and on to the airport