I wrote this in November and was not happy with it;
"
I heard passion on the streets of New York City
the sea foam of the sky hanging on the Persian shield watching over us
the gloaming brings retrospect
the healthy green pendant of the six train matches the bushes in the square
in Little Ukraine
it is dark
we bounce as we step
I know when I move I will
be on my own
she tells me she hears yelling. is it happy exclamation or anger
I don't know. I say. I don't know"

12/25/2016

On the sidestreets of Little Ukraine
men smoked cigarettes and said *pryvit
and KNL said it's because you look slavic

but i'm pennsylvania dutch! i laugh
shoofly pie, not sochniki
off the 33rd street stop

and it was getting to be dark out
the sky heliotrope and true blue
I heard a noise

did you hear that too? I say to her
It was angry or happy? she asks, more like states
I don't know, all i said.

*But it's passion.
It's passion.
On the streets of new york city. That would make a good poem, right?

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disablèd
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill.
    Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
    Save that to die, I leave my love alone.

12/25/2016

i remember how she'd
noticed my eyes wavering
and wandering along the grey sidewalk

watching shoes go by from
the basement window
they seemed sentinent

she asked
what are you thinking about and why
after all you are my best friend

i know you better than any man you meet
i took a deep breath. "why do things go away?"
i had barely touched the jasmine tea.

she poured me
a cup
"you think too much,"

12/24/2016
to G.G.
"When the sons of Princeton
Gather anywhere,
There’s a place they think of,
Longing to be there.
It’s the one and only
University,
Situated and celebrated
In New Jersey
-Traditional Princetonian song, "Going Back to Nassau Hall"


You worried I
wouldn't contact you again
I laughed because it was funny.

I'd told you
my favorite beach boys song
was That's Not Me

He moves to the city and regrets it
I guess maybe the feeling of being in
over my head prevailed in my life.

Speaking of which–
we sat in the deserted
Prospect Garden

where Fitzgerald did once
And it was donated in 1879
people wrote of it:

"Its grounds, like eden"
I wondered if this was ephemeral
looked hard for the temptation.

I didn't see any fruit trees.
I stared straight ahead on the bench
into the piercing dark

English Yew
behind us
and the red gravel.

I said:
"I can't use thin spoons"
I didn't look at you when I did.

"When you say that,"
A pointedly deep breath
I turn to you.

You continue: "I feel like I love you."
I laughed, not because
it was funny

But I laughed in its simplest form-
Is it not an expression of human happiness?

You told me that you
didn't know why
I seemed to

Dislike the things
that made me great
I laughed because it was funny

And turned to kiss you
you were the first person to ever say
I was "absolutely" beautiful

What do you say to that? I
smiled and
tried to not look

At you in a way that
betrayed to you the feelings
I was trying so very hard to conceal–

they said this:
That I was starting to feel the affects
of a very deep fondness.

As time passes
my poetry, more
succinct.

i fear i am losing it
but does it
matter?

we'd talked about vanitas.
it was hard to say goodbye
and i

turned to you as you walked away
focused on the way you walk
watched you become smaller

and went out to the car.
in front of nassau hall
and i

thought of the next time.

overpoured
emotions carried
along unpredictable courses.

then left memories.
the two
were compatible

*"O Lord, thou givest and at thy pleasure takest away."

Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly ----

A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky

Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.

O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

for Susan O'Neill Roe

What a thrill ----
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.

Whose side are they one?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to ****

The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man ----

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux ****
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump ----
Trepanned veteran,
***** girl,
Thumb stump.