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.

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.

Prayer for the Giver (Spoken Word)

My mom says I’m a giver.

That my charity is a strength.

Like the ability to give

pieces of myself away, wrapped like gifts

is a gift, from God, in and of itself.

Like making loaves and fishes

of my body to feed an undeserving nation

is worthy of applause. This is not a miracle,

it’s a burden. Christ, born from a virgin,

made loaves and fishes, a bit like me.

But I’m not like him, he hung on a tree.

I’m just a boy from NYC.

Thats right, I’m NYC

Not Your Christ

so don’t look at me

like a I owe my life.

You undeserving nation

You ungrateful child

You unenlightened people,

I will not be your communion wafer,

distributed to everyone like welfare checks.

I will not be your wine.

Do not think, drinking the blood of a giver

makes you any better. You are still,

ungrateful. You are still impure.

You do not deserve this feast.

But neither do I. I do not deserve this body.

I do not deserve my voice.

I do not deserve any of this.

And why should I keep,

what wasn’t mine to begin with?