Between First Avenue and Bedford

I’ve been riding this train
for a very long time now,
much longer than the woman
who just got on. While all stand clear,
the doors close, and we
are locked in this silver eel together.
It is two minutes beneath the East
River until the next stop and I feel
the pressure pounding, my ears popping,
and her eyes perusing the train
as if it is her first time. She has goldfish eyes.
They are wide and forgetful eyes. 
Dark and beautifully unforgettable eyes.
This journey will always be new for her.
I think of talking to her, ask her what
book she’s reading. But all my thought
drift upward like hot air, and seep through
the cement and cement to drown, unheard,
in the East River.

As the train arrives at Bedford Avenue,
I am tired and the train lulls me to sleep.
My eye close like a camera lens,
but no photo for memory is saved.
When I wake up, she is gone. But,
I know tomorrow she’ll be back with those
glassy refreshing eyes. God’s most beautiful
anointment, those youthful Goldfish eyes.

A Scholar’s Sonnet

We measure our life in half empty beakers
and drain pipets of our worth into deep, awaiting
test tubes. Like Jesus, a weightless insect, oil
on water we float atop the plains of unending and uprising
seas; we are holy, disgusting, and dangerous.
It stirs below us. Whirlpools drain us to their depths.
Riptides drag us to their conclusions. And yet we float.
And yet there are those of full glasses, who drink
sea water, in hopes to go mad. Those who turn their heads
and grin at a cave-sentenced puppeteer. They do not fall next
behind Alexander in the line of students, but they are greater
than Glaucon. They elucidate life with nothing more than glowing
eyes. Look you learned man who cannot live! Erudite starver!
How noble is a noble when compared to this carver?

New York in Short

after the night has ended, before

the sun rises I sit and think about

believing. something, anything to believe.

stories like my own, told by someone

who can tell them better than I can.

everyone else has long gone home,

likely sleeping off the memories

of bad jokes and misunderstandings

quiet quarrels, fighting words

wisely left deep in the throat.

but I am awake with the cricket,

with the moon whose crater filled

face reminds me of the boulders

in central park. I’ve never been

but I wouldn’t mind going. Earth

science taught me that they were

dropped by glaciers during the ice age,

an unwanted child, left on the steps

of a church it would help build.

there are so many unwanted ones

in new york. outcasts from one place

or another looking to build their temple

in the sand, where it may unscramble

the riddles of piety. where it may

crumble to the satisfaction of

its attendants, releasing all the

mystery of mysticism that

the orthodox would follow.

tearing the labels of the label maker

is the birthright of those who

have been reborn in exodus.

baptized in exile, who have refused

to be exercised of their demons.

because what is a demon?

is it not the forgotten child,

carrying its message long

after the glacier has melted?

is it not the outcast, left to clean

the nails from Calvary and going home

with his nails painted red;

his hands, drenched in salvation.

My Dear, Why Do You Pout?ty

It’s simple: If we stop focusing on all the bad we would find so much good. If I could stop complaining about snow, I could see how much fun it might be to play in it. It’s so much easier to see all the negative in the world cause there is so much of it, and we would be fools to ignore that, but it shouldn’t stress you. If I was stressed every time something bad happened, I’d have no time to enjoy my life. So lets just take a moment and be fools.

My dear, why do you pout

Is it for the spring song not sung

Or the lack of flower sprouts?

Is it for the winter snow still here

Or is it the things you fear?

Is it the sun refusing to rise

Even a bit above horizon’s line

Or the thought it may one day die

And lead to all our demise?

But my sweet, do not brood

It is only suffering you perceive

But much more can be viewed

Through the eyes of the naive

After the Storm Has Past

I’ve always loved summer rains. They always leave behind this fresh scent, as if rain had cleaned off everything, and made it new. Whenever I think about the moment that the Bible says, “So God made the vault and separated the water under the vault from the water above it. And it was so. God called the vault “sky.” And there was evening, and there was morning–the second day” (Genesis 1:8), I always think of that smell. So fresh and new. But when I smell that lovely scent, I feel like I missed something. Like there is something that I was supposed to see, but didn’t. But I will, one day.

When the rain stops, in the night

Wake up to the hush

And smell the morning dew

In this bristling brush.

Feel the lost breeze

In this wet wisp of air

Never have I felt,

A morning so fair.

After rain is long gone,

And only droplets remain,

I still here thunder whispering,

It still calls my name.