During The Riots
What is that sound, that commotion?
It's coming from outside.
Heavy footsteps.
An angry sprint.
Can't hear your own clear thoughts.
Or the growing of your peonies
in the window box,
the neighing of ceramic horses
on the mantle.
Even the apartment you live in -
it's trying to say something
but is muted by the clamor.
There are people in the streets
running and shouting.
Storefronts are busted.
Cars set on fire.
Cops shot some kid.
Turns out he was unarmed -.
Stay inside, you tell your life.
Head lowered, lips taut,
you fit it in nicely.
On The Red Line
Curious, these people drawn out
of some commuter hat
to fill all the available spaces.
Odd, the faces and the bodies
chosen, by circumstance
to share the red line
from Downtown Crossing
to Harvard Square with me.
I'm by myself and yet, on either side,
there’s some students, nose rings
wriggling to the jiggle of the rail,
their legs knocking against my knees,
an older man with beard,
maybe a professor and
a couple of tourists
with heavily marked up maps.
Across from me is
an intellectual type,
head buried in Spinoza
and a couple of black kids
singing under their breath
and a Spanish woman,
and a man with a thick Russian accent
talking to himself.
The ones in my life
are chosen deliberately
compared to this.
The lovers and the friends,
I open my door for very carefully,
after much thought and feeling say,
"Yes you can ride this train."
But every stop, some leave,
some more get on so randomly.
Company is never this busy,
never this loud.
So many people ride my solitude.
Such a variety
to not knowing me.
Human Sacrifice
I'm born into a loving family
despite losing my dad,
and I figure,
wow I'm cared for,
I'm cared about.
And as soon as I'm old enough
to understand -
I'm grateful for living in a free country
Not like in the former Soviet Union
And it's safe –
none of those American shootings,
Latin wars,
Asian disasters.
And the weather's perfect -
it's not Equatorial Africa,
it's not Siberia.
The women are beautiful.
My sports teams are winning.
I have a decent job.
The pay's okay
but the perks are great.
Besides, the ocean's nearby
and it’s free.
So what do I do
but emigrate,
leave all this behind
just because I happen
to love somebody.
I don't bring it up much
but then again
gun-owners don't shoot
burglars much.
City Folk
City's crawling back
like an alligator
into the sewers
that birthed it.
Roads are brackish,
swampy.
Cars leave greasy
snail trails.
Houses descend into sumps.
Sun's not sinking,
it's drowning.
The moon doesn't rise,
it's hatched.
Those are snake eyes
glowing in the night sky.
Blind fish gulp and squelch
from the brown
cesspool surrounds.
Soon enough,
everything will be swallowed
by a bottomless grimy pit.
Until then,
business as usual
in gutter, down culvert.
We're the populace.
Don't mind the stench.
It’s not going anywhere.
A Disappointing Year, Same Old Pond
He's been stabbed in the hand
this past year
and he scalded his fingers in hot water.
His wife left.
His job folded.
What can fresh water do for him?
Mild, quiet,
you could almost call it
a setting.
What can disappointment bring to this?
All too peaceful.,
too serene —
a man has to interpret
on his own terms.
So rocks sink through his own rippling face,
disperse his eyes, his mouth, his chin,
before surface heals.
He thinks of his wife
swimming in this pond,
her strokes even
like weaving at a loom.
Some more stones follow -
smash her body, her implement.
His shoulders ache
as does his neck
as he scours for fresh weapons.
He remembers when feelings
were above all else,
more than everything.
Now all is water.
Expecting to drown,
he splashed instead.
