Poem
In his mid-sixties,
Sometimes Art-Dealer,
Sometimes Importer,
World-weary eyes hovered
Over a three-day
Graying growth beard.
He glided up the path
Around the ruins
Of Erol Flynn’s old tennis court,
With Pritzi, his ever-vigilant
German Shepherd
By his side.
Sitting on a bench ...
He said it aloud,
Matter of fact;
“I’m just a schmo”.
And with that,
The axis of the city turned
Away from his creative self,
Away from his power,
Away from his youthful visions
Like the winter axis turning away from the sun,
Like a beggar knocking on a church door that never opens,
Like a wife who has ...
You can almost hear the snickering
Behind their quizzical stares,
And feel their question behind
The long, awkward silence that asks
What is art
Compared to wealth?
You might wonder
If they care about the past,
Shrugging before yet another cemetery,
Another memorial,
Questioning the origin story o...
We keep choosing
And this is what we get;
Vacant offices and ghost exchanges,
Avatars of buyer personas
Walking through malls like vast catacombs
Waiting to be resurrected by a flash sale.
The same joke is told everywhere we go,
Like personalized license plates,
The same meme copied like fractals
Down ...
Dark days descend
When black humors ink the void,
Like a giant squid groping
In the cold, silent depths.
You feel the pressure everywhere
Like an entire city block on your back,
Can’t see an inch in front of your face
Without feeling your eyeballs squeezed down like olives.
Can’t think except for the ...
You don’t need art
In the middle of a dream,
Waking up cheek to cheek
With your sleeping daughter
Who climbed into bed, frightened
With dreams of her own.
You need art
For the month after your father dies
When everything before you is
Like driving in a snowstorm at night.
You don’t need art
In the middle of ma...
Confronting my father’s body
In exquisite silence, alone in the vast emptiness
Of a small room in the funeral home.
His rigid body, his eyes
Diminished, sunken, closed
Tight like the fists of a child.
His feet were exposed and cold
Outside of the blanket
Covering his body.
I spoke, no...
I
There we were, the two of us
Free again like first semester freshman year,
Free in the city, free
For the weekend, free from our lives.
With the city open,
With its constellation of lights,
The Boston skyline beckoned, in the air
Briny waves of beer, seafood, seagulls, and the sorrowful joys of grad...
Like a thug Irish street gang,
Beat up, mangy, and gnarled.
Crowded together as if for a mug shot,
The large one, the muscle, crusted over,
Put through the wringer,
Next to him was the big guy’s best friend,
Mastermind of the whole outfit,
Long, skinny, and balding
Hairs ingrown,
Then there was Roast-B...
Categories
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