I hadn't expected someone there
already before me.

Only lonely men come here
I heard him through my heavy breath
lonely with nothing and everything.

Down there was the sea rumbling faintly
with the froths painting themselves on the shore
like a sketch in a child's drawing book.

Height does amazing tricks, the man continued,
makes you feel invincible
stimulates you to be ****** into gravity
to fall as light as the feather.

The dusk was wrapping up the light
when I remembered having promised her
not to be late to descend.

There's a man up there, I told the gateman,
Nope, he said,
you were the only guest this evening.

User cannot be found.
I suppose it's better that way.
User cannot be found.
So I wouldn't try to say "Hey"
User cannot be found.
A hole grows larger in my heart.
User cannot be found.
This is absolutely tearing me apart.
User cannot be found.
I'm sustained by the memories I keep.
User cannot be found.
And by the dreams that haunt me in my sleep.
User cannot be found.
I hope you're doing alright.
User cannot be found.
And that someone is appreciating you, holding you tight.
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Why I Always Carry Tissues

To My Children:

I'm laughing at myself,
As I am prone to do because
Why I Always Carry Tissues
Is the title of a poem
I write for you.

There is a story here,
Of parenting, and responsibilties
That transcends yourself, defines me,
Vis-a-vis you,
then and there, and maybe now.

When you were small,
I took you by the hand,
The cement canyons, trails & rivers
of West Eighty Six Street,
Together, we would ford.

Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,
Your hand, from my hand,
I would release
So you could fall down,
All on your own.

It bemused me that I could see
Three or four paces ahead of thee
Exactly which crack,
Upon which you would trip,
And come crying back to me.

Back-to-me.
That was then.
And now,
Yes, no more,
Back-to-me.

But I always had tissues
to dry your eyes
And no surprise,
I still do,
Always will.

These days, they,
more likely used to dry mine,
As I have forded that Styxy river,
When crossed, you spend more of the day,
Liking Back more,
Then looking ahead.

No matter, by right and tradition,
It is still my mission, that
when you need, when you bleed,
as I know you surely shall,
These pocket tissues will be there
Ready, willing and able, fully capable,
of snatching away your tears.

When you need,
When you bleed,
And you surely shall,
These pockets of mine,
Of tissue made,
Are waiting for your tears,
And you, to fill them,
For without them,
Their raison d'etre is unfulfilled.

These used tissues are my history book,
Re the art of loving, and the arch-i-texture of life,
Of tears and hearts,
And concrete spills,
That need knees to be complete.

That is why you will find me, without fail,
Ready, willing and able, holding my
White Badge of Courage at the ready,
Waiting patiently, for my mission to be redeemed,
Missions known as parenting schemes.

The scheme is clear, even if
my tissues you no longer request,
You will let your own babies
fall n' fail, then take their tears
Put them in your pocket,
keep them forever wet,
Like my memories of you
the ones I cherish best...

Perhaps a tradition
We will start,
Unsightly bulges in our pocket rear,
Where we will store our packet of saver-saviors
Removers of our dear one's fears.

If we are truly wise
Those tissued memories
We will keep,
Die among them contented,
Knee-scraped deep
When tears fall...



2008

I am not overwhelmed
but I am stunned by your beauty
so effortlessly you make my jaw drop
and turn my eyes heart eyes
you aren't my dream girl, you're the dream it self
with your beautiful brown eyes and your lovely short hair I can't help but running my fingers through

as i fall for you like I'm the last leaf of autumn
I will adore the way you laugh
as i fall for you like a tear of joy
I will adore the way you smile

and I am planning to never get up

Your heart has been carved out and now all it is is* hollow all while

everything is
                          f
                             a
                                 l
                                    l
                       ­                i
                                          n
                                              g
                                                   apart around you

and all you can do is stand, and stare, and watch.
all you can do is stand shocked and frozen in position,
all you can do is feel terror and horror and empty*,
all you can do is marvel, standing in the ruins, on your sudden inability to cry.

can you sing a requiem about things not lost?
about the could've, would've, almost, that you're glad that never happened?
can i say
I don't miss never knowing what's it's like to stay in one place your whole life, (because it's something I've never done),
I don't mourn what could have happened but didn't (because we can't change the past, and who's to say it would have turned out better),
I don't mistake content for happiness (because for one they are different, and for another, content means there's still something to strive for)
can i say
I appreciate the moments when dreading the worst turned to finding the middle ground
I acknowledge that perfection does not exist except in regards to imperfection
I accept the pushing and pulling and flickering and shining and living...

can i say
i hate this (i love this)
and mean the exact same thing
because the glass is half full and half empty
and neither and either or
because it's
still a glass with water no matter every which way it's looked at

Old words are meant to be thrown away
they're like snake venom throughout your body
all the old, faded words you wished

were never written

I'm glad someone stole my old journal full of poems
because I am a new person now

a new pen writing on a brand new page
the page clings to me, and I to it,
and together we make beautiful new work

talking about the one who makes your heart sing
and the past that has hurt you, but you finally overcame it

that's the thing about old words

they're meant to be thrown away

-m.a.