Monday, May 8, 2017

The Snitch

The strangest people in the world 
come to New York
City (yes, all of them,
don't question me) and they congregate
on the Upper West Side, like the balding
Chinese delivery man
with his heavy metal boombox, 
this woman with a cane and
a young man dressed like his
conversation partner
at their favorite Italian restaurant: long
blond hair, red lips, a tight black dress.

I can't decide what is tacky
and what is the opposite,
or what the opposite is,
or whether I should be deciding
at all. An old man
dances by, calling
me a goddess.
Who am I to tell of it?
Who am I to name names?

Saturday, May 6, 2017

He Would Want

He would want to be an artist
if he knew what he wanted,
but he would be wrong.

He is an actor
who, half-mad because he cannot write the lines,
refuses to read.

Think of What Peace Is

When you think of what peace is
you think of clouds
thinning and thickening,
halo-gold, red-edged, heavy with dark.

When I think of what peace is
I think of a seed
in a pink plastic piggy bank
under my bed.

Blank Page

I saw the blank page too, but what you saw
was a wide white mouth. I saw you see it,
though you turned the key behind your eyes
quickly, before anyone would know.

I know your lock brand, I own your fear.
They’re sitting in storage somewhere,
unlabeled, in a big brown box.