31 March, 2014


You remind me at times of myself
The crossroads left unexplored
Or the fluttering of kites, slightly damp
Which we soared from a rain-drenched rooftop.

That day I would not worry as I write
To close a bracket or dot an 'i':
You were the gaps between my lines
Each silent toast with those cheapest wines,
The nameless harbour for my questing ship
Twixt grimy nights of tart-filled sleep.

Counting the trails of childhood stars
I sit at times and then realize
It was a time that passed me by
With neither cheer nor a sigh.

20 March, 2014

checklist - spring 2014

Things I have done this spring trip to NYC:

  • Been to an Irish pub on St. Paddy's Day
  • Got lost in Central Park until Google Maps came to my rescue
  • Danced with crazy friends in pjs early in the morning, before even brushing our teeth.
  • The famous New York brunch
  • Visited the MOMA, the Met (again)
  • Posed next to mammoths and tyrannosauri fossils  at the Museum
  • Watched Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart on Broadway in Waiting for Godot.
  • Went along as my friend started a queer book club in the city. Something I hope to stay in touch with and drop in as possible.
  • Discussed life, the universe and everything with the old friend
  • Discussed life, the universe (but not poetry, alas) with the Sistren to aforementioned friend
  • Watched old friends get along awesomely with the new one (and shamefully felt a slight pang of jealousy: how easy and quick it is for people to open up and step right into the lives of others!)
  • Survived my friend's intense chemical warfare.
  • Came home drunk as a lord, and then some more

to a windy pavement walk

 You had always been perfect.

 In all those stanzas of dusk and death. And life and laughter, untarnished. In beautiful names and beautiful eyes. In the shrines that I had erected at every crossroads over the years, as a compulsion, a pilgrimage and then finally as a passing nod to crazy old times.

 You had always been perfect.

 you should be happy and happy and smiling and laughing. Always. Set on a pedestal and never touch the ground. Of  strolls around central park with your doting in-laws and family and all smiles and embraces and limousines like they showed in the endings of Hollywood movies from a bygone era.

 Not this.

 You, first shrine of mine, have no right to not be happy. And carefree. And everything that makes the sunshine bring a smile on our faces. No, no right to have moisture glisten on the corner of your eyes, pearly drops welling and weltering. No right to be anything but perpetually glad and caring and living the dream. No right to sneak menthols on the pretext of keeping me company downstairs next to graffitied walls and an impersonal dumpster. No right to look so perfect as you sip at your drink, only it's the fifth for that night. Absolutely no right to break off mid-sentence as the lump intensifies in your throat and I think of stricken swans falling like snowflakes into the russet meres.

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