Monthly Archives: April 2012

For the Dooleys. 18 of 30.

I know this poet who is really a painter, who draws himself with hand on forehead while a shadow of himself made up of millions of tiny men taps on his shoulder. He talks like New York has teeth made … Continue reading

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17 of 30. It Takes Two.

I keep watching “It Takes Two,”

marvelling at Kirstie Alley’s eyes, 

her subtlety when flinging macaroni

and cheese at Steve Guttenberg.  

 

It is not the most functional love story,

but there are orphan children involved, 

mistaken identities, and the possibility 

that a family can begin on different continents,

 

if wealth and poverty were continents,

that is.  

 

I listen to Clarice’s alliterations, 

smile at the sing-song meanness 

of her blonde hair and skinny wrists.  

 

I do not hate her. 

I cannot hate her after 

the three stepmother’s 

and just trying to get hers.  

 

You should watch the movie.  

It might change you.  

It might not have changed me at all.  

I have watched it three times in the last month.  

I don’t know what I’m looking for.  

 

But they say Staten Island.  

Say family and hopeful.  

They say dissappointment, 

and I somehow feel like home. 

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16 of 30. Grace before Sleep

Let me fall asleep while I tell you about Grace, and how she spoke so softly. She used to take me out and show me her favorite brands of jeans and dresses. She’d have me come to McDonald’s with her … Continue reading

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15 of 30. Haiku Sort of #napomo

I have two days left to write 15 poems. How is that going to work?

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14 of 30. What We Pray For When We Are Sick.

Last night I woke up to my body, a constellation of pain. Each joint, elbow, knee, wrist and ankle, every finger a glowing star of ache. I would say it more plainly, but the body dreams in galaxy and heat … Continue reading

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For Every Barista Ever, and Especially for Sunshine. 13 of 30. #napomo

Sunshine is a poet, says her arm, cut-out-heart with scissor a permanent stamp; a new name. Sunshine makes coffee, makes chai and latte, sunshine is not her name. Smiles slow as chemex, steams the milk with her eyes closed, hair … Continue reading

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Bathing in Kitchens. Something of 30. #napomo

Anna Karenina backstrokes the moon, while my mother bathes Lyndsay in the kitchen sink. I marvel at the bubbles, the glow of outerbridge stretching toward New Jersey. Women’s bodies bend; the heart hardly fits in a cage made of bone; … Continue reading

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11 of 30. The Almost Summer of Beer

I am falling behind. Always waiting for that light to roll over the bridge or for the flowers in our garden to bloom. The city gets pretty in spring time. We eat together more, and it gives me patience that … Continue reading

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10 of 30. The Neuroscience of Stars.

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9 of 30. Remembering Skin #npm

painting by Enrique Martinez Celaya There are things I miss (the laundromat, garden walls, not having to explain). Growing up feels a lot like sighing. This morning, back in New York, I thought about how important parts of me are … Continue reading

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