At five thirty on a Wednesday night, the look on all
Our faces signifies concentration.
We match. We look related with our furrowed
Brows, clamped mouths. I walk six blocks
To the bus, clenching my jaw all the while,
And wilt into the vinyl seat, my focus
Dispersing into the air like scattered light.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Thursday, June 04, 2009: On the Street….Blue Byrne, Brooklyn
How to Remove a Spider Web
You’ll need a broom handle, or plastic ruler—
Something to function as an extension of your arm.
Do not, under any circumstances, use your fingers.
The web will cling and stick, and even after soap
And terrycloth, even the next day, your fingertips
Feel glazed and gummy, and you won’t remember
Why. In the same way that worry can approach
And creep over your heart, dragging a net of malaise
With no discernable origin or pattern.
You’ll need a broom handle, or plastic ruler—
Something to function as an extension of your arm.
Do not, under any circumstances, use your fingers.
The web will cling and stick, and even after soap
And terrycloth, even the next day, your fingertips
Feel glazed and gummy, and you won’t remember
Why. In the same way that worry can approach
And creep over your heart, dragging a net of malaise
With no discernable origin or pattern.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009: On the Street….Moving Images, NYC
The rules of traffic are arbitrary,
And arbitrated by machines, lines, and lamps.
I wince at the cyclist hurtling along the narrow channel
Between wheezing, lurching vehicles.
When you enter your car, you become it.
That’s how we function on a road crammed full
Of metal and glass moving as if of its own volition.
And arbitrated by machines, lines, and lamps.
I wince at the cyclist hurtling along the narrow channel
Between wheezing, lurching vehicles.
When you enter your car, you become it.
That’s how we function on a road crammed full
Of metal and glass moving as if of its own volition.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009: On the Street…Fort Greene, Brooklyn
Momentum
A broken wristwatch becomes a bracelet.
I prefer it that way,
For numbers to become decorations,
Illustrations, squiggles.
When time’s arms stretched and yawned
From a sundial's center,
How long did it take for someone to shudder
At the lateness of
The hour, the momentum and strength of shadows
Running the length of their leashes.
A broken wristwatch becomes a bracelet.
I prefer it that way,
For numbers to become decorations,
Illustrations, squiggles.
When time’s arms stretched and yawned
From a sundial's center,
How long did it take for someone to shudder
At the lateness of
The hour, the momentum and strength of shadows
Running the length of their leashes.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Monday, June 01, 2009: On the Street…Print Dress, Sydney
Precipitation
You showed me your grandmother’s ring—
A poison ring, you called it—that could hold a capsule
Of cyanide in it. But your grandmother used it
To hold a seed pearl from the strand that snapped
On her honeymoon. She’d knelt on the blue carpet
Of the hotel in Cape Cod, praying it wasn’t an omen,
Plucking the ashen beads from the navy fiber,
Cupping them in her palm (against her lifeline)
like rainwater, miniature hail, fine snow.
You showed me your grandmother’s ring—
A poison ring, you called it—that could hold a capsule
Of cyanide in it. But your grandmother used it
To hold a seed pearl from the strand that snapped
On her honeymoon. She’d knelt on the blue carpet
Of the hotel in Cape Cod, praying it wasn’t an omen,
Plucking the ashen beads from the navy fiber,
Cupping them in her palm (against her lifeline)
like rainwater, miniature hail, fine snow.
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