Friday, April 29, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
separate
A pink sink with long black hair
it doesn't matter I tell myself
since the sway of your body
with your hand raised as you cook
reminds me of the first doubt
I had about you.
Embrace the void
of moving on,
moving on
is celebratory
as it is on a new spring day
when you imagine
cherry blossoms raining in the wind
and recover from the grief of
the long winter you endured.
Separate is the love of the past
without wanting it to return
a wise friend said.
Hallelujah!
Saturday, April 16, 2011
4 ans
la belle Juliette
My mother first introduced me to Juliette Greco, that beautiful iconic songstress of the 1960s who spent her time surrounded by Boris Vian, Miles Davis and Sartres. In my early college days I fantasied of spending my days strolling the street of Paris writing poetry and taking philosophy classes. Instead I ended up over my head in physics, bio chemistry and calculus. Well I'm brushing off the dust on that old dream and finding a place for that passion, which somehow has held a little flame all these years. L'ame des Poetes is particularly beautiful...
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
10 for sunday
Saturday, April 9, 2011
random meeting on the subway
over hannah arendt
"we live in a time of non-reflection"
she said lifting her dark eyes
in a child like wonder
we mused about nostalgia for the light
and art
and birth
I'm Ana
perhaps our paths will cross again...
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Swimming in Silence with a capital S
Wading up to my knees
the wind gives me a chill.
It is not summer yet
I was fooled,
those meteorologists never get it right...
Why do I listen to them?
Someone stole my towel
Not surprising, it is fucking Brooklyn
and the G train is coming.
My feet are cold
but are they are wet
they tasted something
and I’m filled with regret,
salty with joy.
Does he know how the thought of him
runs in my blood?
Wading up to my knees
the wind gives me a chill.
It is not summer yet
I was fooled,
those meteorologists never get it right...
Why do I listen to them?
Someone stole my towel
Not surprising, it is fucking Brooklyn
and the G train is coming.
My feet are cold
but are they are wet
they tasted something
and I’m filled with regret,
salty with joy.
Does he know how the thought of him
runs in my blood?
There are tender drops that run along the dark ridges of the bark marking each breath. Where did I leave myself along the way? Was it on that little bench in Palermo where the cats brush up against you craving for love? Or the river bank catching crawfish on Wolf Hollow Rd. You were there I think but it could have been anyone. There are no more armies, just spies sneaking in the corners reminding you of your past. Time to brush of the dust and get off the bench. I think I see blossoms pushing their way through the rain.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)