"Bursting"

Bursting

I was on a shitty Citibike
So I
Docked it at the Stuyvesant High school Station
Just as well, as I was bursting:
The fog over the Hudson
The fog gently trailing past One World Trade
The joy of feeling like you're the only one on the bike path, 'cause you don't see anyone else
The feeling that most of the city will still be asleep by the time you get to the office
And that most of the city will still be at work
By the time you start biking back

Enjoying the feeling
Of being alone in the world
But still wishing someone were there
To marvel at it with you

I got on a new bike
And on this one
I could pedal as hard as I wanted to
And I wanted to pedal hard
Pedal out the hurt and the anger and the toxins
Pedal you out
Pedal furiously to Battery Park

I docked this bike in one of the usual places
And watched the Staten Islanders
Scatter out of the ferry for a while
And here I am

October 21, 2016

Right After the Recital

Right after the recital I realized
That I had forgotten to mute my phone
I was so relieved
That I hadn't gotten any calls, texts, or Facebook messages
In the past two hours
And then I was sad
That I hadn't gotten any calls, texts, or Facebook messages
In the past two hours.

September 18, 2016

Takbir

Takbir*

I got to work
so early this morning
that not only
could I see
the rosy fingers
of the
ancient Greek poet

I could hear
the ancient
Middle Eastern call
of someone praying
to the East

October 19, 2016

*composed in its (admittedly short) entirety on the one block walk from the Citibike station to the office building

Three Things Before 9:00 AM. (Already It Feels; Invisible Dog; Imperious Attitude)

I

Already it feels like it isn't working.
Already it feels like a big wide, white, empty abyss.
Already it's a mountain laughing at my broken legs.
Already it's everyone from junior high school taunting me, terrorizing me.
Already it's a wave that knocks me over and somersaults me under water over and over and there is no shore.
Already it's a barker on the street corner, convincing me it's a sure thing.
Already they're coming and telling me it was all a big joke.
Already the dogs are calling the police.
Already I'm running away from myself, because my self has a huge knife and a maniacal laugh and is coming for me, and I know that I can run, but I can't hide, because wherever I go, there I am.
Already it's hopeless, and already in this moment of utter darkness, a sliver of light appears, and already I believe in it because I'm such a hopeless sucker.


II

My dog is invisible, but he follows me around wherever I go. He takes invisible pisses on the lawn next door and my neighbor never knows. He takes a shit in the middle of the sidewalk and nobody sees and nobody cares and nobody notices when they step in it. He barks and only I can hear it. He does incredible tricks that only I can enjoy. He eats invisible food that I buy at the invisible supermarket with my invisible money that I make at my invisible job, where I sit at an invisible desk doing nothing all day. When I come home, my dog wags his invisible tail and showers me with invisible kisses, and I love the odorless smell of his invisible dog breath. My invisible dog is very, very, old, but when he dies, it will be basically the same as it is now, as if he were still here with me.



III


If I were suddenly to adopt an imperious attitude, I would expect that many things would change. Some people are born to follow, and perhaps I would find that many people who used to think of me as something of a joke would suddenly bow their heads and await my instructions. Others might take on the role of toady, and treat my every word as if it were infinitely wise and true. I could decide that the chair I am sitting in is a throne, and I could clap my hands three times and call for my Foole, and he would be dressed in motley and have one of those staffs that jingles, and I would laugh at his jests and perhaps chastise him for his impudence if he steps over a line. He would know that I could have him killed, but he would bravely make fun of my bald spot and my pot belly and my family history. He would tell the story of how my mother worked as a secretary for the CIA and cheated on her husband by fucking her boss, and that that's how I was born. Careful, Foole, I would say. And he would laugh and dance and sing a silly song of Martians made of marshmallows and I would forgive and forget. Then the entire court would sing a song to me, their king, and then we would all have a grand feast where I would eat no meat and drink no wine, and then I would sleep a deep, deep sleep and dream of being the real me once more and then I don't know. I might wake up feeling even more imperious than the day before, or I might find that I have grown weary of imperiousness, and decide instead to adopt an attitude of sniveling, craven, servility. I could wear a hair shirt and walk the streets with a beggars bowl, and when I spied the Foole on his way to the castle, he might remember yesterday's mercy and put a scrap of bread in my bowl, and I would thank him sincerely and then sit down and eat like a king.

August 30, 2016

A Paler Shade

A Paler Shade

As I stand here
Resenting the raucous music
Of the Q train performers
For making it impossible
For me to read
The essay about James Brown
In The New York Review of Books
I realize
I have taken whiteness
To a whole new level.

July 30, 2016

On Being in the New Yorker

On Being in The New Yorker

1.
I'm in The New Yorker this week
(A little profile about my history
With my band, King Missile)
And, although I am a grown man
(Fifty-five years old, as, sadly, the profile
Points out)
I find myself on the subway
Looking around
To see if anybody's reading it
To see if anybody is noticing me,
and thinking,
Hey, there's that guy who's
In the Goings On About Town section
A grown man, I guess, but still a child.

2.
Somehow,
I managed not to tell the woman
Carrying the Strand Book Store bag
With the New Yorker magazine cover on it,
"Hey, I'm in The New Yorker this week."

3.
When the woman came into my office
Saying, "Did you see this?
You're in The New Yorker!"
I said, "I saw it, thanks."
She said, "I got you a copy."
I said, "I'm a subscriber, but thank you."
And she left.
And I felt like a dick.
But I had seen it,
And I am a subscriber.
Still, I felt like a dick.

4.
The woman sitting across from me
On the train is reading New York Magazine.
If she were reading the New Yorker,
Maybe she'd be impressed
That she's sitting across from me.
Not that I want to impress her.
She is, after all, choosing to read New York Magazine Instead of the New Yorker.

5.
My dear friend Julian
Suggested that by virtue of knowing me
(A guy who is in The New Yorker this week)
He can claim secondary bragging rights
And dine out it for years to come.
I'd just like to point out
That so far no one has taken me to dinner.
Just saying.

6.
I realize
That if I were to submit this to The New Yorker,
And they were to publish it,
I would again be in The New Yorker.
But I'm not going to submit this to The New Yorker.
It's highly unlikely that they would publish it,
And I don't deal with rejection all that well.

7.
Next week, I will no longer be in the New Yorker.
I will look back fondly on this week,
When I was in the New Yorker.
I will move forward and try not to live in the past,
When I was in the New Yorker.
And if I ever have grandchildren,
I will try not to bore them with stories of
When I was in the New Yorker.

June 30, 2016

Monday Morning, On the Way to Work

Monday Morning, On the Way to Work

I
The loose fitting pants
Hanging off the homeless guys ass
Were not a sartorial affectation
The ‎motherfucker clearly didn't give a fuck
And I can't say I would either
If I had nothing.

If I had nothing
I wouldn't give a shit
That I didn't have a belt
Or that the crack of my ass was exposed
To some asshole
On his way to work at 

Some fucking law firm.

II
On the subway platform
The schoolgirl
With the short pleated skirt
Looked like a deer caught in the headlights,
Made‎ me think how fucked up it is

That girls are made to wear that shit
Although maybe it wouldn't be a big deal
If men could behave themselves.

III
Mysterious
Crumpled
Paper
Bag:

 

Did you hold a breakfast or a lunch?
A cup of coffee?
Pixie dust?
A handful of magic beans?
The song of 100 angels?
A box of nails or screws?
A blueberry muffin?
A promise?
A lie?
Why were you left lying there?

Why? Why?

A thoughtless gesture.

Today, I appreciate the thoughtlessness.
 

June 6, 2016