Ghosts of the usual

7/29/2019 Ghosts of the usual

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GHOSTS OF THE USUAL (2002 2007)

1

HOW A DOG GROWS OLD IN MANHATTAN

Her owner must growOld too, wear spectaclesGrow gray hair

Show evident signsOf arthritis in her fingers,Possess sobriety chiseledOn her face

Beat a good heart,Hurt a weak back,Beam sensitivityToward bending lights

Love corner delis,Carry an oldBildungsroman novel,Walk an avenue

Close to home

Mourn a dead husband,Acquire an alien tasteFor fresh figs

Pocket a small bagOf treats and an oldWorn leather leash.


2/11


2

A LOST HAT

hats are meant to be lostand the defeatist manwho wears one perchedon his scalplike a gray watchdogis fortunate to knowThis.

he can ventureto causal meetings safein his knowledge that hissafety is not perennialnor is his consistenceof action in an acquaintance/loversMemory.

he can swallowall the previous nights,the words/she saysshe will be quiet and henonchalant about her,about the lost greyhound hat.

which might as wellshe points out/in this instance beshading horizons above some otherstrangers eyebrows as morningFades.

he smiles and knows that thiswoman and hat and stranger likeThis Memory Fades.

FOGGED

He could swear he sawA shadow of trees between her lips.

She could taste the strawberriesHe had for breakfast ten years ago.

He watched her birthmarksDisappear and reappear between his fingers.

He ordered a cup of coffee at the stand.She went to the kitchen and brewed a pot.

He poured sugar.She saw faces boiling on the water.

He sat, watched a child chaseA pigeon with an injured neck.

She sat, watched the light disappear and reappearBetween the shades.


3/11


3

THE PHELAN QUARTET

Rons worn leather jacketRests on the shoulders of his chair,Two buttons lost,One hanging loosely from a thread,Its paint peeled.

Ron stares at his fellow musicians,His pale fingers plucking the bassAs another tune reminds him of home.

Matys frying pan heats the frozenSpanish omelet, hot olive oil splashesOn her pale fingers.She turns the omelet over and thinks

Of how her fingers used to play the violin.

Matys thin shoulders rise an fallAs her neck turnsFrom side to side, all to relieve the painOf young arthritis,On her skin thereIs a colored tattoo of a bird.

Takanes pink plastic trumpetWhines as its cradled by his paleFingers, his hair smells of tear-free shampooAnd his mouth cocoons a gummy-bearStuck to his molar.

He runs in circles as his tongueBattles with his tooth,For him it tastes like music.

Effas battered doll sitsOn her lap while her fingers untangleThe orange knots of her hair,They are watching cartoon charactersParading to a Shostakovich symphony.

Effas blue eyes stare at the screenAs a red streak of candy salivaSlides from the corner of her lipsDown to her chin.

She wants her mother and screamsFor her, in return she is answeredWith an amplified bass.

Rons deciphering the mysteryOf a missing chord when TakaneSneaks behind his jacket,Raises his trumpetAnd lands it on his head.

Laughter escapes Takanes mouthAnd Ron calls out to the kitchen

For fucks sake Maty, will you watch the kids?


4/11


4

SPARK

It was a pity that they turned to ashAfter it smoked for a short while.

After all, the kindling was notLuxurious, religious, or uncanny.

It was just a small pyre of papers,Full of short unfinished lines.

The first flame was bold,A tiny breath of clarity.

The second teased with innuendos,And the third sparked and leaped with nonsense.

These were the sum of you and I,And now, this powder is our resolution.


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5

BEFORE AND AFTER ORTHE SAME DIFFERENCEBETWEEN SILENCEAND NON-SILENCE

Before was a hissingOf a tire/After was a pairOf lips (still, reposed)/Dogs ears flappingAgainst the wind outsideAn automobiles window/

Hands crossed over chest/Air conditioners/BrokenAir conditioners/Everything

That takes over and fillsThe void of an expired motor:(barking, quarreling, waterescaping containers, salivacreeping down a sore throat,television, game show hosts,sore losers, winners medley,bad reception)/

After was a woman givingBirth (teeth clenched, neckVeins popped and a dropOf sweat on her foreheadAs she holds her breathAnd prepares for one lastPush)/Before was a slipperyNewborn bawling/

First time lovers staringAt each other/Wet sighsTrespassing pillows/LostConsciousness/Body againstConcrete/Incubator/Flat line/Falling petals/Sunflower seedUnder teeth/

Before were beads hangingFrom middle-aged necks/After was cased instruments/Buckles tapped by fingernails/Covered ears/Spray bottles:(under armpits, against walls,above bathtubs, exterminatingnuances of nature)/

Empty spray bottles/Alarm clock/Math problems/Fire alarm/Mist/Brewing coffee/Fires aftermath/Steam/Books/Slapped thighs/Empty church/Sermons/Regret/Smacked lips/

And all that has been left unsaid/And all that has been said.


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6

IN THE DARK

On a night of dirty blissLight was peeking throughThe dusty white blinds,Reflecting skin.

Sweat emerged and descendedInto strange crevices.His eyes rummaged the dark.

In a second of dreamHe recalled the waving armsBranching from a leaning torso,

Taking it all away.

He dreamt the skid marksBleeding slowly, and the bouncingGravel of doubts.

He dreamt the paper giftsTossed out the window,Blackened by exhaust fumes.

She woke him with her elbowAnd he discovered that limbsWere dangerous things on shared beds,But her body was still there.

She revealed secrets while she slept:A birthmark above her navel,Whispered ramblings in her sleep,A sad twist on her mouth,And the absence of haste.

There were no ticketsOn her bed, no schedules,No roads or dirty windows.

She is absent when she sleeps,But her body never runs awayIn the dark.


7/11


7

Pantoum poem:

THE FRENCH HAT

A tilted French hat can do so much good.It forms a shadow in a straight lineAbove her dark eyebrows,What comfort to lie in that shade.

It forms a shadow in a straight line,

Her eyes can silently spy,What comfort to lie in that shade.Baudelaire gazed at a girl with a French hat.

Her eyes can silently spy.A tilted French hat can do so much good.Baudelaire gazed at a girl with a French hatAbove her dark eyebrows.

FUTURE PLAN

Next time we drink, well spitSober poetry into an ashtray,And with a slurred soliloquyWell predict a morning hangover.

Well drink with unhealthy caution.

You will pay attention to meWhile you sway your head.Youll cross your legs on the floor,And you will nod occasionally.

I will speak of your attributes,Of your beauty and of the empty spotOn your bed.

I will ask if I may stay.

Then, you will deny it to me,And I shall laugh, and hopeTo remember in the morningIf you laughed as well.


8/11


8

ABOUT A WOMAN AND COFFEE

Its too sadThat you werent silentAt the coffee shop

I thought for moreThan a secondThat your lipsWere things of books

Of shells

That everythingAround them the mugsBetween our handsThe stirring spoonThe steamThe waitressWith sad nailsEverything spoke for youAs reverie to your closed lips.

But you spokeAnd every pore linedAlong the ridge of my spineTurned inside out.

And now I haveNo choice but to growSuspicious of coffee.

And everything that spokeFor you all thoseCommon things haveAcquired an air of chit-chat.

Now when a spoon hitsThe groundIt sounds like a spoonHitting the ground.

Before you interrupt meLet me say that youve becomeToo unfamiliar for my tasteToo mild too decaffeinated.

Ill grow fondOf cold drinksIll perhaps sip on whiskeyOr random unspoken lipsAnd Ill find nostalgiaAs a chained unwanted friendStaring up at me

From the opposite endOf a straw.


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9

Ill no longer be seducedBy the bitterness of coffeeWith milk and no sugarOr mellowed by the sweetnessOf coffeeWith milk and sugarOr intimidated by theStraightforwardness

Of black coffee.

Ill judgeWith a sneer all thoseErudite drinkers of bad coffeeAll of them with lipsLike butchered oystersAll of them strickenWith the essence of you.

Ill allow my tasteBuds to witherIll avoid small round tablesAnd tables where moreThan one chair standIll boycott cafsWith smells too temptingIll let all thingsEvery single thingCool down before I swallow.


10/11


10

THE MATHEMATICS OF DISAPPOINTMENT

PROOF: (1)(2)(3)(4) = (a/b/c/d/e)

IF:

The naked back = 1

The face tilted = 2

The eyes staringBehind a strandOf dark hair = 3

The rush of wordsMultiplying lust andThe dialogue ofThoughtlessness = 4

a = (2 has made an agreement between two)b = (time was stricken by unusual weather and when 4Took place only 1 lay on the bed, birthmarks graphed.)c = (the time that 3 spent waiting for the machineTo speak with confidence has beenDivided between certain cafes and public halls,One leg hung over the other, intentions encapsulatedBy papers and beverages and unwanted conversationsWith strangers.)d = (in intervals of thirty secondsThe eyes flashed with interest,And in return, the lips and theTongue were hoped for.)e = (3 explores 1,And 2 recalls the smellOf jasmine sex,Isolated under unsatisfied nails.)

At first light its concludedThat nothing = nothing,And legs part to other groundsAs numbers are exchangedWhile once again, 1 liesOn the bed, unproved.


11/11


11

NOSTALGIA

How it expires:There are coffee cupscrusted and emptypages flutteringaimlessly,luncheons discardeddue to missed appointments.

Now nothing is fresh.Before strangers crownedeach other with verses,nurses were wooedby blushed fingertips,couples stumbled drunk.She smiled,concurred with emptywine glasses they had to be refilledaccepted smoke invitationsoutside, where it's cold and appropriateto rip the seal off each other's mouth,heard the lips pop,smelled the fruit as it ripened,called each other's namefor the first timeand struggled to remember it beforethey had to introduce themselves again.

THE FEAST

We gather, in joy and wander,In sadness and remembrance,Family, friends, old acquaintancesAnd new strangers with the promiseOf friendship.There is no change of seasonOn this island,Only the same streets that leadTo the same housesThe same houses with doorsThat open to the same kitchensThe same kitchens that give wayTo the same tables, and set on displayThe same dishes, the same food,The same sustenance,Feeding those who are no longer the same.Those who have fallen victims,Worthy and blessed, to the inevitable changeOf growing up, and slowly growing old,

Until they reach once more the long lostState of innocence,The clarity and meaning of youth.

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Ghosts of the usual