Sometimes
when you're sleeping and I can't
sleep,
my mind races.
There are things you don't know
about me.

My hand
on your shoulder and traveling
down.
You notice
and turn around and smile
at me.

It's your
half-asleep, eyes-closed smile, those
red
red lips that
will keep me forever
silent.

By the end of this trace
                I'll forget your name
That's what i say each time
           I get down to take the line




Words Of Harfouchism

Thinking of rain clouds that rose over the city
on the first day of the year

in the same month
I consider that I have lived daily and with

eyes open and ears to hear
these years across from St Vincent's Hospital
above whose roof those clouds rose

its bricks by day a French red under
cross facing south
blown-up neo-classic facades the tall
dark openings between columns at
the dawn of. history
exploded into many windows
in a mortised face

inside it the ambulances have unloaded
after sirens' howling nearer through traffic on
Seventh Avenue long
ago I learned not to hear them
even when the sirens stop

they turn to back in
few passers-by stay to look
and neither do I

at night two long blue
windows and one short one on the top floor
burn all night
many nights when most of the others are out
on what floor do they have
anything

I have seen the building drift moonlit through geraniums
late at night when trucks were few
moon just past the full
upper windows parts of the sky
as long as I looked
I watched it at Christmas and New Year
early in the morning I have seen the nurses ray out through
arterial streets
in the evening have noticed internes blocks away
on doorsteps one foot in the door

I have come upon the men in gloves taking out
the garbage at all hours
plastic bags white strata with green intermingled and
black
I have seen one pile
catch fire and studied the cloud
at the ends of the jets of the hoses
the fire engines as near as that
red beacons and
machine-throb heard by the whole body
I have noticed molded containers stacked outside
a delivery entrance on Twelfth Street
whether meals from a meal factory made up with those
mummified for long journeys by plane
or specimens for laboratory
examination sealed at the prescribed temperatures
either way closed delivery

and approached faces staring from above
crutches or tubular clamps
out for tentative walks
have paused for turtling wheel-chairs
heard visitors talking in wind on each corner
while the lights changed and
hot dogs were handed over at the curb
in the middle of afternoon
mustard ketchup onions and relish
and police smelling of ether and laundry
were going back

and I have known them all less than the papers of our days
smoke rises from the chimneys do they have an incinerator
what for
how warm do they believe they have to maintain the air
in there
several of the windows appear
to be made of tin
but it may be the light reflected

I have imagined bees coming and going
on those sills though I have never seen them

who was St Vincent

Silence is not keeping quiet
because you have nothing
to say...

Silence is having a lot
to say but no desire
to speak...

I’m waiting for the corners to stop turning
Like the way her lips part before she breaks your heart
I just wish something felt more like home
And less like a broken glass against another door frame
Some things never change but I wish you would
You’ve broken everything I’ve ever poured myself into
And I know they say that there is no point
In crying over clocks that spin in the wrong direction
I’m sick of clawing at the walls you built around me
Tell me one more time that this is my life and these are my decisions
Maybe if you hadn’t blinked I would have believed you
So now I realize just how long I’ve been standing here
Cold on the curb under a traffic light that never turns green
I’m afraid I was holding the map upside down
Whenever I close my eyes I’m back with you so far away from here
And while the words may never pass my lips
I do miss you and I wish I could tell you it was only half my idea
But if the only way we could be together was to be alone
Should we have ever been at all
*~W.C.

Every morning, the touch of her skin. Each feel of her fingertips awakens the senses, and I remember, for one second, that I am loved.

Its easy to forget when she's not around, and I harken back to that dark corner that holds me, holds me harder than she ever does. She knows little of it, only beckons my freedom for her nights and her pleasure and then disappears in the morning.

She seduces me with lasagna, did you know that? Promises the contents of her fridge and then leads me elsewhere, a place I know she's leading me, but I eat it anyway. She stares at me while I eat, always begging with her eyes to begin the dangerous tango that I can never ignore, and I pretend not to notice, but I do.

Then she asks me how it is and I say delicious, even when the meat is dry or the noodles are hard, its always delicious. Her lips look delicious, her skin look enticing, her curves and entrancing. Truly makes up for the questionable lasagna.


I know I love her. She knows I love her. But she doesn't care, and just plays with me at night and in the morning, makes some excuse of how she must go, ruffles my hair and says thanks for the good time, sport, like I am some child. But I'm not a child, I am a man who loves her.

Love doesn't seem to be enough for my Lasagna girl, and every Tuesday she proves it. The loves not enough, the *** isn't enough, I'm not enough. Just another pawn in her game.

Every Tuesday I come back though, and I always will, until the calls stop and her beauty stops and the world stops.

Maybe it'll never stop. Maybe I've found my soulmate over a plate of half-baked lasagna, but the funny thing is, she will never bother to find me.