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.

Fall Takeoffs

I look at the leaves

the way they fall. Creating

tornadoes is their pass time.

There’s no way to know,

when one will spring up

right beneath my feet,

so I’m always ready for it.

Ready for the winds to pic up.

Ready for micro-disasters.

Ready to be swept away

like my papers planes traveling

far away from their maker.

I never expected them

to keep flying without turning

their noses to the ground.

I never expected them to

keep there heads up and soar.

I didn’t expect it, but I am so proud

of my paper airplanes.

So many souls are on board,

for a flight without a destination.

No seat could be reserved on a plane

of loose leaf. How could a ticket

have any note when the flight is

a note without an address.

These planes, my fleet,

are unmanned, untrained,

completely unprotected.

Our only power comes when you unfold us.

Open the plane doors. Search

through all the luggage for something substantial.

When you can’t find anything, let the passengers,

tired of travel, take their first step into a new land.

Create a home for them in your land.

But don’t let them stay too long.

Take them back to the airport,

put them on another plane, ship them somewhere

they haven’t been. They’re always looking

for new places to go.

Stand Firm

It always seems like people underestimate the power of little things. Just because the wind is blowing, doesn’t mean a tornado will start. Just because theres some sun, that doesn’t mean I’m gonna get sun burn. Living life, thinking about what could be, is painful and useless. Instead, we should pay attention to the actual problems. But often, we skip over reality and jump to what might go wrong. So just chill out, and see the world as it is.

Stand firm called the tree

Stand firm against the wind

He is not our enemy

But he is likely akin

Stand tall said the birch

Stand tall against the nights

And bird watch from perch

Keep that man in your sight.

And stand strong said the beaver

To his dam about to fall

So he cut down the tree,

And left nothing at all.

But many trees were small,

And learned to call, “Stand firm against beaver.

Don’t let him take us all!”