It has been far too long and i’ve been focused on poetry these days, though have some articles cooking, but that said, thought i would share some new work. I realize this is quite long, but hopefully it will keep you reading though no obligation. More to follow in short order and many thanks to all who read all the way through. This one reads better out loud if i’m doing a reading, but since i can’t be there, here it is on paper.
Thanks for tuning in,
Lexington & 63rd
Walking beyond Lexington and 63rd
I realize this moment now
is really what it’s all about. Not some
dream of tomorrow or promise of what’s to come.
Forty years now and you’ve learned that promises
mean nothing. That love and love are in the doing.
In the give and the take, in the oui and the non,
in the push-pull tango, the dance between lovers,
The “go away closer” a game of which you’re tired.
The world has enough uncertainty. Just add water!
and Voila! You have more.
Years prior you were all about settling the score.
Now you realize the score means little
That perhaps its not even kept
That the nights of suicidal weeping,
of pill-popping – the yellow and the blues,
those heavenly pastels, so seductive and so mellow
relief in a bottle: it’s all so very Anne Sexton.
So Sylvia Plath. Isn’t it time you grew up?
Life is right here: on this church on Lex and 63rd.
The way the winter light hits the brick
and it glows warm – a winter peach light,
only here, only now, only in this moment
and god, you are here to witness.
So now you realize all along
you’ve been seeking absolution,
a balm to soothe prior pain,
some high and holy unction, the wafer
on the tongue that melts like a perfect kiss,
like that one right person, the once in a lifetime,
whose tongue you’d gladly suck because
although that may sound strange, one
is blessed to know such lust. No need to define.
The inner fetishist comes out. I’m all for that.
For tongue sucking, lip-licking, for long, slow licks
that make you scream on stolen afternoons
in which you sing a private aria and
wake up all the neighbors. Let everyone
wonder about this pale and quiet girl,
what happens behind closed doors stays
behind closed doors and a secret is a secret.
Never to be told and that is my final answer, yes.
Hey, I’ve been around long enough
to know that love is not any savior.
But sure, sometimes love is the answer.
I believe in giving over.
I believe in laying down my love.
I believe in not withholding.
I believer that even lovers play games
and that this is so goddamn sad
and right now my bullshit meter
has hit the high mark and all the bells
and whistles sound.
It’s so easy to fall.
To believe in such smooth, molasses
lines, in such dark bedroom eyes, in
the scent of your dark Mediterranean skin,
to succumb to your absolute and pure desire,
which may or may not be true.
Look. I have to tell you:
I believe in possession.
I believe in surrender,
I believe in one true love.
I believe in singular devotion
that okay, so maybe it is possible to love more than one,
never in the same minute or moment.
That right now, my love is here or there.
I believe in falling slowly backwards,
in believing he’ll be there
because mo matter how smooth,
how good, how utterly lovely
your words, compliments, letters,
you just do not back them up.
That thank god I see it.
That in a New York Minute
with the sun and the church
on Lex and 63rd and my long black
skirt and my walk, all tits and ass,
with my opalescent skin jut glowing
and my come hither pout and my slow
easy smile: Oh baby, I turn heads.
They seek me as model, as muse,
and their devotion is singular and strong.
In this moment I stop on the street
and think of you. My heart
beats a rhythm, yes breaks just a little,
a small fissure, like a crack in fine china
in the moment that I realize the answer I had
is not it that I am for your absolute desire,
that I know that love can split and spark and break,
that two loves exist as one. That right now,
in this moment, as I step of the curb, as you
step off the curb, as our hearts beat like hummingbirds,
our paths cross in the midpoint, the intersection of desire.
Our eyes lock, look exchanged, recognition, and I see
that desire: how you’d take me, shake me. The grrrr
that gets your engine going, that you’d like to lick,
suck and fuck and tantalize and tease until I screamed,
until I filled the courtyard with my screams and said
your name a thousand times and the pigeons lifted
from the rooftops and the sound of me coming echoed
down every narrow road. How you’d whisper hot
to my neck the litany of lovers, until I gasped, breathless
and exhausted, until you told me the words, until you
lift my hips to meet you and I open my eyes
and am greeted by your slow, easy smile, the one
that says, “You have pleased me so well.”
I take the moment for what it is. So much
exchanged in a look. In a phrase. In the spoken
unspoken. No need to define because it exists
in the here and the now, as our paths intersect
and yes, I know you would kneel and lick the high-arch
of my foot and that god, yes, I would let you.
But I am older now and wiser and I know that you gotta
keep on walking. That life goes on and on and on.
That I live without regret. That the New York night
beckons, that I take it all with a hunger. That I drink
from this deep-narcotic air. That I am giddy in the moment.
That life is made of brilliant moments.
That in a certain light there is beauty
even as the heart aches and yearns.
Even as I write these hard black and white words.