When it rains, some people run a little
tucking sighs into their collars  
my knuckles tap lightly
on the backseat window
shattering a string of clammy
question marks
you said, we met too soon
before we’d learned how to love
and now I’m grinding restless days  
sharpening them into matchsticks
waiting for a sunny day
to strike some sparks
the rain, keeps stitching up fissures  
while the city slips and slides in puddles
our conversations hang  
like wet clothes dripping on the laundry line  
awaiting the next sun to dry and turn them into  
transparent answers.

You make me
wanna write poems about you
You have been on my mind for so so long
probably because you were honestly
one of the most handsomest men
I've ever met in my life
that was so so my type
and the funniest thing was
that at the time
I never realized that
We met in Jerusalem
I thought you were gay
because you were so beautiful
the most gorgeous hair
the most beautiful eyes
that I could get lost in
forever
the most beautiful  earrings
we sat on the bed
in your room with all your plants
and pleasured me
I dream of you all the time
we sat on my bed and spoke about
concioussness in hebrew
it seemed fluent on my tongue
when I was with you
I held your curls close to my face
carrassed your hair
stared into your eyes
with lashes so long
you walked to me barefoot
and asked me how you looked
and I told you handsome
you are always so handsome I said
it seemed fate brought us togehter
how weird that was.

You told me how beautiful I was
and that you didn't need anything from me
just to hold me and kiss me
maybe it was because eventhough
you were probably a bit of a player
you showed me that a man can be
romantic sweet and a pretty boy
who is deep
and that people like you exist
so I don't know what this poem is about
but I wander about you
so much
I hope maybe we will meet again
in another metaverse
or down the streets of Florentine
or Dizengoff Telaviv
I wander what that would be like
I love the pretty boys
I try to convince myself
that I am always just gay
but I gotta admit
I love the pretty boys
the ones who are deep kind
have a great fashion sense
and love to strum a guitar
the men that I was always taught not to like
that they weren't "man" enough
but to me they are
because I think real men are kind
loving sweet and beautiful .

there’s a living reality of
fallibly hopeful distraction—
sheltered squatters—
residing above a room where
everything important is angry,
not easily suffocated.
the warm polyester of a busy mind
is sick with monotonous fear
that the residents below
will expand their decay,
raging in a panic until the walls collapse
and the nails in the floorboards are
upturned and weaponized;
a clever, persistent enemy.
this unbearably,
infallibly hopeless
struggle.
there are paintings on the walls
and books on the shelf,
plants on the windowsill in the late afternoon.
i’m worried these will die too.

Come May. Come what may.
The most significant thing today
first Monday in May
my wife six months pregnant with twins
says she’s scared what we’re getting ourselves into.
Like the time I moved into an apartment uptown
I mean way uptown, Bronx uptown, uptown
where I’d never been
bomba echoing in the airshaft
painted the walls banana yellow and moved out the next day.
Lost the deposit.
A few months later moved back to the same neighborhood,
stayed a decade.
I’m not—scared, that is—but they’re not kicking my insides out, either.

There's an addict in the attic,
and a trans girl in the tub;
There's an immigrant, Hispanic,
and a criminal in love.

There's a shaman burning incense,
and a gamer taking shots;
There's our upperclass equivalent,
and a noisy group of thots.

And the lady takes our livelihood
and somehow still stays poor,
so please make sure the lights are out,
and always lock the door.

The two ol' pals are facing each other.

He passes a glass of poison
to his dear guest, leaning
near the front door, slightly opened;
and he's learning the reason—

why he's standing there,
about to storm out of the stone-cold apartment—
'bout to burst in tears
shedding the vivid droplets

that shouldn't be belonging to a mere ghost.
Yet he's fleeting, escaping the scene still,
while the owner of the kitchenette
is putting back the bottle

    to where it belonged;
    and he's gone, present no longer.

The drink on the rock—left on the shelf—
is evaporating, following the vaporized guest,
leaving the scent of faint alcohol
that lulls the other friend to regretful sleep.

imagine if we had a small flat
buried in the middle of the city
like i know you want
away from the sky.

living together and dancing
drinking mocktails and laughing
i want to see you happy
just once. just once.

we could have a dog or a cat, because
we'd be in a penthouse suite looking
over the rainy cityscape
up high in the thin air.

there would be dreams experienced
side by side in the night
and when you say my name
i won't miss a beat.

it's just a fantasy, a novelty
afforded by imagination
so that when i hear your voice
i see our flat in the city
and not what you wish
you
had said
to me.

I’ve piled my books high.
Stacked them against the window.
He pecks
And he clucks.
He’s the greatest company!

I blow dust off the hardcovers.
He must think they’re sand dunes.
I’ve mountains
Of heaps
Over which he bounces and skips.

“Shoo! Shoo!”
He’s attacking me.
He seems plenty cross.
I guess he’s lonely.
But hey! So am I!

I haven’t been outside
In forever.
He hasn’t been outside
Since he flew in.
He must, like I do, like it here.

I read him a book.
He likes the tale;
The one of the windborne bird.
He seems not to like the one, though.
The one about the caged singing bird.

I read a book.
About sunlight
And moonlight
And about windows.
For that’s how they come in.

And I’m curious.
Curious enough.
And so I set about
with him flitting here to there,
picking, unpiling, unstacking.

Most books I shove into a trunk.
Some even manage to fit in the bookshelf.
I use it mostly for things.
Many things.
And a book or two.

The window.
This solitary window.
I open.
And there’s a flutter.
He’s gone.

But when I leave the apartment,
I always come back.
I always come back because I’m tired of walking.
So, I imagine that he will come back.
Yes, he will be back,
When he’s tired of flying.

every summer,
there's
dead baby birds
on the
walkway leading
to the
entrance of
my apartment
building.

last summer there
were three, all
pinked skin, just
a few inches
apart
from each other.

the ants
found them
first, scurried all
over them,
devouring
what
they could before
the cat(s) got
to them
at night.

this summer i've
only seen one,
nice and
plump with
plumage. this
morning
it was gone
too though,
nothing but
the pile
of tree seeds
it was on
remains.

they nest there,
in the dryer
exhaust
vents on
each floor.
-drawn there, I
guess, by the
warmth
and lofty protection
from predators.

thing is, they
clog the exhaust
with their nests
and people
complain about
wet clothes.


...warm

and safe from
predators,


but not safe
from one
phone call
to management.