for you.

you and that fist full of red hair,
her red hair and strands of light...
you had your palms sweat and pull;
a king would not reign with those hands.

i am sorry my eyes do not shine,
they went unlighted, never fueled.
i am sorry for lips that touched,
doors you could not open.

voices shredded on the floor:
tiles warming up under
her fire kindling low
then higher, higher.

baby birds break in air,
like springtime wronged.
so april hailed,
it's come early this year.

i saw
reddish purples and
bluish greens on
tasteless tongues.

i saw
broken lips and
broken doors:
broken and entered.

i saw
then, too much
of her in you,

and you in her.

play in the afternoon.

in my seat, the lights turned down

then twirled around and found

themselves focused

at center stage

where the main couple danced

their hands around there

to be touched and held

i looked up and saw her there

in her sunday theatre chair

in her view her man-child slow 

dancing with an other lady-girl

she was she who was pretty 

and soft and white

and red lips and eyeyeyes

she looked at his hands feeling

still deeper in her spine

still stronger on her flesh

white in white dress

her soft brown hair closer

than two seconds before

by his face and tallall neck

they danced with their feet

their legs arms hands

their belly buttons shy

their gregarious chests coy

she imagined clothed nip nipples 

playing hide and seek

playing honey, do you love me?

her face so in the still lighted room

stole i some stares as she stared

at their hidden playground games

red light green light then 

stop and move

his hands 

her white waist white waist white

oh my dear oh

oh

oh my oh my my

oh

dim the lights

oh how they change

oh away her face away she turns.

half a movie.

you remind me of my mother,
the way you fell asleep
when the movie was deceivingly
quiet, and blood began to seep.

my mother always said to me:
yes, a movie, can we watch it together?
then showed me the many films
she took out from queens central library.

but, of course, i picked
none of them (they were all chinese):
"no, this looks pretty bad..."
or "i don't have time."

she always watched them with me,
or, promised to watch them with me,
when i picked the movie (almost never chinese).
then for some reason, she'd fall asleep.

she didn't understand english,
or spanish or french,
but mostly, i think it was because
she didn't understand dark humor at all.

for the first few times,
i tried to wake her; sometimes,
she woke up to look at me,
but never for long.

after that, sighs
then, bitter eyes with sighs
then, hard, darting stares
at the breathing body that didn't care.

but once, i imagine,
all she did was stare
at a breathing body that didn't care;
i don't think she was ever angry at me.

the word.

she says it

like she says all her words
short and constant
fading colors

as she drops her papers,
or wakes up late,

stumbling over

the stumbling floor

she says it
the way the trainman
punches our tickets.
cliclick

the faucet turns on
you rinse your hands
the faucet turns off
you flick flick flick

that's how she says it,

that's how she says shit.

customs.

you wrote about him,

and i write about you,

though, if i were truly

of this age, i would be 

free to think

in nonsexist ways;

i would write about you,

and you would be she:

a woman, forty percent

more than a man.

so say i write about you,

and you are she, 

so then, what have you done 

that i write about you?

you pick the classics 

and their masters

and take prisoner

their good ideas

and several significant novelties

and present a present to society

at which point,

you become a classic novelty,

with more paper liberty

though still confined by stories

of him, of her,

but more of history.

oddly enough, though you be

woman, you carry on history

as if it were your own:

you do not dare, do not dare

disturb the universe.

shantih shantih shantih.

is it true that i cannot write

about you at all?

is this your story, or his after all?

you have said what you meant,

but surely you cannot be sure

that i have heard you say it all:

i do not listen all that well.

i have forgotten who you are.

but, is it not true 

(and tell us the truth):

you have forgotten who you are.

apology for a nap.

i wanted to wait,

my back and thighs sinking

into the thick cushions of the couch,

ready, already,

all ready to wait

since you were (just

slightly) late.

i think i fell asleep, then,

there on the pillows made

not for your head, but your rear,

but good enough 

for my head, then and there.

(i hope you took the rain 

check in my sleepy hand,

and next time,

be on time, man.)

another poetry reading.

i have noticed

on several occasions

that many great poets

write 

about their pasts

and their lives

and things that are

sometimes

not true

but mostly,

mostly true.

i have heard the time

of their words,

lines of nostalgia 

served:

motherlands and fatherlands,

mater (semper certa), 

pater (incertus),

then

motherfuckers,

abusive fathers,

who drank too much

and were unfit,

and used their hands

in such wrong ways

that listeners would

cringe,

frown,

but breathe (please do),

after a last line,

somewhat relieved.

but sometimes poets

only lie,

their words

only fiction,

sometimes beautiful,

sometimes not.

i do not write

such things

you call poems

and therefore am not

what you call

poet;

perhaps i lie

about my past

and all the fuckers

in my life,

but you, dear reader,

will never know.

shut down.

no thoughts

or too many that i do not hear any

i'm going to hell.

someone told me to go to hell today.

if you don't know, you don't sin.

i know i know i know.

                          i have sinned.

for these sins, for these sins

i have lost my Father, an orphan

an orphan now

                   who will take care of me

now who will?

i have abandoned by the unknown

my Father who has listened 

who will listen to me now?

i am going to hell, an orphan

in hell, who will listen

to no thoughts for

too many thoughts for

not one cares.

oh Father, i have sinned.

the accident.

"dear sir, excuse me," she said,
"sir, (louder now) hello,"
her voice directed at his back,
a stone wall, it seems, for
he made no response.
she "sir, sir," began to run,
following the slinking shadow
tagging behind the quiet man.
at this time of night, "sir!"
echoed against the cold
empty boundaries of air,
but melted before the man,
who never turned around
at that time of night,
to look at the car-
that-would-not-stop,
or his persistent savior-to-be.

if on a sunny day

look at the little

lovesick girl,

and the way her

quiet lips curl

common sense

she has none for now,

real colors of him

she will not allow

she will eat 

some nothingness:

his free words, 

her golden guess

should he be absent

she'll stay lame

today and tomorrow

all one and same

her mother and father

do not know

their sweet daughter's

highs and lows

for him this way 

she ought not to live,

for all she does

is offer and give

if on a sunny day she wears her heart, let us

hope there'd be only warm rain to start.

a friday cigarette.

would it bother you if

my cigarette smokes off

like grey hairs rising

into air

and their dandruff ashes

fall like snow 

on a dry day? and

would you care

if i sneezed and 

choochoo goes the train?

beepbeep goes the car?

would you

honkhonk goes the monster truck,

the mother goose?

and if i brought cheap wine

tonight would we 

coocoo go the pigeons?

oh don't worry.

i'll just smoke one

and a hahaha we go.

prayer.

when he'd left the room,

she turned to God and said,

God, I can't give you anything in return, but 

can You give him to me please?

and she smiled at the idea

of love and God.

in her town, the people had all gone. she'd stayed, because no one told her where to go before they all died.

she sits by her window, breathing the snow that blew in too far. on her linen folds the dots of fluff melt.

for some time now, she's been watching intently the lonely crooked tree.

no leaves. no color. it's blending in with the snow world.

she breathes, enjoying the look of white for the first time in her life.

girl.

dear boy,

i'm happy for you

that you have found

your girl

you shall take the train

off to somewhere

and meet her

and see her face

and hold her hand

her small, strong hand

the hand that has held

so many other hands

then the epilogue goes:

(isn't it sad

now boy,

that your girl

only likes girls?)

miss.

don't tell him

that i waited

for just a little while

while i ate an orange

slowly, then another

and another

until my tongue

lost taste.

don't tell him

that i walked

all too slow

as the seconds ran,

that i listened

for footsteps

other than my own

until i didn't

and walked again.

new.

they whom i love

walk past me

talk over me

slowly becoming

them, just them.

June.

blooms on fields

of gold and silver

feet run on

sunburnt grass

beaches hushing

for the stars

grand appearances

late at night

silent kisses

by the sand

won't you please now

say my name

roll me into

june by mistake

a poor decision.

tonight

your body lies 

on your bed,

a pillow between

your lonely legs

is all you have

for company.

listening

to the off-sync clocks

each sounding off

its own time.

you trust none:

you have your own 

time

       time

  time

is an illusion.

it is night now

because there is no light,

or perhaps you are now

blind and refuse

to acknowledge now

the fact

that you are waiting

to see something now

already past

you are

all ready.

you lie 

fallow.

i'll be here

alone with the mice.

i'll tell the poor things

you said hi.

Feel: for contact.

I.
We lie facing the air
Stretching
On the ice
I slide, roll on.
Endless.

II.
If I close my eyes
You disappear
Then reappear

In my ear
Joints cracking
Body thudding

You sigh and
Yawn.
I yawn too.

III.
We stand
Tall as winter trees,
Bare without our leaves.
In the spots of sun,
We breathe and melt,
Our trunks wilt
Toward each other,
Sinking slowly
Together, into air.

IV.
Now water,
I ripple
Against your waves.

morning.

when night becomes morning,

it is not a slow melting of light,

not a steady run of color,

not spilled.

flash, flicker.

God turns on His lamp.

conserve energy

amid the blue

freely flooded,

i can see that

blind men are still blind,

those awake still awake.

this now.

you look at the floor and see a crevice which is widening as we speak.

can you believe it, to-day of all-days.

so we stand, looking at this gap now,

                                                                 this now

our voices sitting still in our throats.

we have locked our mouths.

after all, what can be said?

did i mention this gap

                                                                 this now

is situated between your left

                                                                           and right leg?

we'll only be halves of what we are

as we are only halves of what we were

as we were only halves of what we had been.

but don't move.

                            why? 

                                    it's pointless, is it not, dear?

                                                       look. 

                                                                  this now.

                                                    

ersatz.

there is one

who resembles her face

on which that smile melts

her benevolent fairy eyes

mother eyes

friend-lover eyes curtsy

every now and then

there is one

who resembles her words

her quotes and funny bones

light punches that sometimes

hurt a little, bruise prettily

faint blue-green-purple

every now and then

you'd see her in one

then in the other

you'd think about her

and these two

wondering if there can be

substitutes, or just ersatz

every now and then