The Silver Face

Buskers came and went, not worth
writing about really. Jazz trumpeteer,
soul singer, Hendrix style guitarist who
staked out the Jackson stop off the blue line

and fumbled along blues chords. The good
ones closed their eyes when they played
and the bad ones did, too. In between were
the ones who nudged their open cases and
roped eye contact with a lasso. Just lives

like any other who passed by and gave money
or didn't - blinking lights in a tunnel or
split vocal chords looking to shout some
kind of noise into what is only silence ever,

the hum rumble of the trains that devours

everything. And if they do not sing? If they do not

play or burst? Suppose he stands in quiet grey

painter's clothes wearing kneepads and black boots,

boxes of junk arranged about him like an insect. His deep

gloves hide silver fingers that splay and clench

at the end of an arm akimbo, straight, akimbo

again to the silent rhythm of Billie Jean from unseen

speakers. Suppose you see all of this but you do not

really see any of it because of his face. It is silver

like the fingertips you can just make out, too

silver. You wonder at the hope that it is paint

as the contours which make a face disappear

beneath the smoothness of silver. You see hollow

slits above the nose that fill with silver at each blink,

the thin line of a mouth closed tightly, a patch

of stubble breaking through the silver smooth chin.

Suppose he does not speak. Suppose his face is set.

Yet he dances. There is no sound anywhere

but the echo of distant trains and there is horror

as you knock the face from the body and watch

it shatter, like glass.

Haiku Haiku

I have to tell you,

it is easier to write

these in Japanese.

Miami Haiku

Forty-Eight degrees.

Miami folks are confused,

now coats are sold out.

Moon Shine

The moon has a fat belly tonight
And I can’t decide if that makes her a slut,
But I sit in her light anyway.

Lune

Yo, writerly friends.

SO! I wanted to hop back on the poetry train but was having trouble finding a station. Lucky for me, I work an arts admin job and sometimes they send me to seminars and often those seminars begin with creative activities because that's how we prove we're arts administrators and not pedestrian heartless sellout administrators.

Anyway I went to this meeting tonight and the opening activity was to write a very short poem called a "lune." I have not researched this but I assume it is a basic American bastardization of the Haiku. Here is a lune that explains the composition of a lune:

Lune
Three words here
Five on the next line
Ends on question?

I thought I'd tell you about the lune because it helped me write something creative today for the first time in six months, and maybe you would like to write one with me. Here is my lune.

Decisions
Clarity isn't transparent.
Rather: one solid, firm color.
Is that unclear?

Anyway, hello poets. I'm back in your world now, play with me.

pardon this brief interruption!

I wanted to point out a silly & ridiculous blog I'm writing with my roommate Tate, which is simply pictures of models in the "fashion Vogue pose" or, as Tate calls it, "the bones pose," because "regardless of what you're wearing, you have nothing if you don't have bones."

It's called the Bones Blog.

Thank you.

On with the show.

For My Love, Whom None Can Bottle

If love were a mustard, 

I’d call it Dijon. 

For they make it in France, 

Tres romantique… non?  

True, sometimes it’s hot, 

Spicy, and bold. 

Like a bright-yellow English, 

The variety least cold.  

And like honey mustard, 

When I’m with you, life’s sweet; 

Curled up beneath blankets 

My hands warming your feet.  

Also, love can be rough, 

Like a coarsely ground Meaux. 

And all the tough bits 

Cause the flavor to grow.  

But more often than not, 

Like Dijon, our love’s smooth. 

Hearty and comforting, 

It warms and it soothes.  

Indeed, love is a mustard, 

And, I know our love’s true,

Because standing at the fridge, 

All I can think of is you.