Why About Love? II (July.2015)

She was the broom that swept
me out of my concave mattress
as the sun crept over the horizon
and swept me off my feet
when the sun stood at its apex

I’ve never felt so helpless

She had strings tied with bowline knots
to every visceral neuron like chains
heaving a futile car down the highway
on its two front wheels;
even if there were a conscious
driver—Hercules himself
thrusting the gas with his great Greek gall  
it couldn’t break free  
I couldn’t break free  

I’ve never felt so dependent

She needed not be visible
to imbue me with life either, to make me
amorously dance like a mating primate  
to make me write like a reporter
with an imminent deadline and jaw dropping spectacle
to make me sprint fervently
down a random street rife with strangers
solely because she might have
been the one I saw turn the corner 23 yards away

I’ve never felt so foolish
I’ve never felt so credulous
Ive always been so sensitive

    Why About Love? I (July.2015)

    With there rise of every trying sun
    and the fall of every lulling moon
    he, like a farmer desperately yanking weeds
    under the scorching sun, 
    tirelessly punched away at numbers
    under the flickering beam of his fluorescent lamp.
    He didn’t have to hurl bales of hay over great lengths
    But I could see, beneath the red sea
    his pupils treaded in,
    the fatigue filled bags under his eyes
    must have weighed more than the table
    he worked so tirelessly to put food on.

    And once a month, after plowing
    his way through the bureaucratic field of his first job, 
    he’d tilt his head to the mountains
    of bills stacked on the kitchen counter,
    and prepare to see his monetary livestock slaughtered
    before his very eyes.

    But as he did with there rise of every trying sun
    and the fall of every lulling moon,
    he’d then tilt his head down
    into the glowing eyes and gleaming smile
    of his newly born daughter—
    as she effused enough joy
    power the entire city of New York—
    slung his burden over his shoulder,
    and continued plow
    with more vigor than he had the previous day

    High Def (Jun.2015)

    There were imaginations
    That trekked great lengths
    To conjure her essence, as she sat there,
    Existing in her dust filled cabin. 
    They were those from a desert of buildings
    Who could only find sustenance in LED screens desperately craving more.

    There were those that followed
    Her through streets of bustling clamor
    Wiping through shoulders
    Like a woodsman slicing his path to an ethereal body
    Of rejuvenating water.

    They were those that would have gouged their eyes
    If it meant they could once hold her close
    Lacerate their hands
    If on crystal nights they could gaze into her twinkling eyes
    Sever their ears
    To whiff her lavender scent

    And would have sat with mirth in the blood
    Of their mutilation and cried out to whiff again!
    To hold her closer
    And witness her hazel eyes once more.

    Even in the absence of curled lashes and powdered flesh
    Did she emanate a vitalizing gleam
    That would serve as the sole, genuine beacon of allure
    Which they so seldom got to witness

    The Man Who Sat Idly in the Field (Jun.2015)

    What was an amorphous clump to others
    Was her apparition caressing his pupils from above. 
    Even the brawny blades of grass
    Which withstood shearing winds
    Appeared to prostrate in reverence before her.

    Even in the presence of the sun, 
    That often commanded a dark vale over his eyes
    Or the shield of his palm
    Appeared dusky in her phantom smile.

    Even his mind, 
    Which so frequently bends
    under duress of other sky gazers’ negations—
    Twisting to accept his lost dog
    As a feeble snail crawling through the azure mirror
    Rekindling clouds as forbearing conspirators of pelting rain
    —Stood stiff, unshakably rooted in conviction. 
    For surely, this was no obscure clump of white
    Or inadvertent effect of light
    it was her image in the sky
    Glimmering, faintly wafting in his eye.

    Dinner Party (May.2015)

    Under the spotlights
    Of the chandeliers
    I felt the patter of every heel
    Along with each fork’s high pitched tonic
    Striking the surface of concave plates. 
    Laughter sharply reverberated off the walls. 
    Even my lemonade’s pour lingered
    Like the whisper evoked by kissing cymbals
    I was an audial vortex with a veracious appetite,
    Consuming every intone daring enough to leap into the air
    But when her azure eyes consumed me
    Even the most boisterous cry seemed faint
    Relative to the palpitating thunder of my heart
    And when she mellifluously inquired “what is it that you write?”
    Out of the rampant choir in my conscious I could only piece out
    “Well, I write poems”

    But there was a genuine, coy voice,
    That to this day wishes I heard it say
    “Well, I write poems about women like you”

    Thermo (Apr.2015)

    Perhaps it is delusion to think I am destined to be alone,
    That every corporeal intertwine is nothing
    More than a second of sparkless friction—
    A brush of shoulders amid the clutter & scatter of 7th & H Street,
    When all this time, there may combustable embers sitting in the depths of my messenger bag
    Stirring their molecules of time until there are enough romantic joules
    To render me molten instead of singed.

    Perchance her embers are burning too,
    Glimmering in her back pocket
    While men whistle at her from across the street
    With breath so gelid it makes 70 degrees feel like frostbite and crusting skin. I want be magma,
    Scorched by amour fou,
    So I can rush through the cracks of the bustling sidewalks,
    And arrive by the arm of her chair as she sips her morning coffee,
    For the zeroeth law states—two systems each in thermal equilibrium with a third system
    Are in thermal equilibrium to each other