Tuesday, April 7, 2009: On the Street….Raphael Lorenzini, Florence

Distressed: your favorite treatment for jeans and leather
Rarely registers across your fair face.
But, like the brand new denim that is pounded and streaked,
Scratched and bleached, you undergo treatments.
To benefit your surfaces. Artificial sun in which you bake,
Elixirs you apply under eyes and neck,
Dustings and powders in which you bask to bronze,
To darken, to treat so that you might appear
As if your environment affects you.

Monday, April 6, 2009: On the Street….California Girl, Paris

She was noisy. Velvet skirt swish.
Bangle clang. Stiletto clip-clop.
Even in the quiet moments.
The creak of leather gloves,
Shuffle of glossy papers in the theatre,
At the doctor. Not even our carpeted
Home could muffle her. From the shower,
The thud of toppled bottles, orchestral
Gurgles and yawns. Loud, thunderous,
Raucous, rowdy, call her what you will,
She was bigger than her skin and bones.

Friday, April 3, 2009: On the Street….In the Shadows, NYC

Brideshead Revisited

A man staggers into a mansion, clutching a ragged felt bear.
He holds it by the threadbare paw and heads for the liquor cabinet.
Faceted decanters fling the light back into his eyes.
The reflected sun feels like splintered glass.
Any and all bottles are ready at hand, waiting for him
To make a choice (scotch), to take the top off and pour.

This isn't a joke, it's literature, a study in prodigal sons.
Amber liquid, brown bear, tawny, stubbled skin,
Tame bear, wild man, glass palace filmed over with dust.

Thursday, April 2, 2009: On the Street….Via Tortona, Milano

Manholes

The city is freckled, pockmarked with openings
that lead to subterranean chasms:
manholes mar the streets like giant thumbprints,
grates grab heels in their lattice,
sewers and drains exhale white clouds
of god knows what. What happens
down there, in inky tunnels and bricked caves?
Are there rats? Villains in cloaks?
More likely, workers in bright orange suits,
Astronauts of the earth.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009: On the Beach….Tri-Color, South Miami Beach

When the warm weather blows like tumbleweed
Across August and September,
And the black blanket of night is more eager
To cloak us all,
I’ll remember summer in the lingering pressure
Between my toes, my flip flop’s phantom finger
Gnawing, insistent at my instep.