"macy" poems
where am i?
how am I to write when
I am no different from
those gaseous ephemeral words
who lie prostrate upon
the pages of my dictionary
carved plainly into
those battlefields strewn across
the wartorn country
my heart the despotic dictator
whose primal drumming
carries no tune
and no rhythm
and throws of explosions
grenades that
black out the world for
a brief moment
until it careens back and
slams into me
disorientated
i should have been born twice
for how could i have
both my body and that
intangible inexplicable
something inside
it stirs at the molten core
of me
that chasm that forged
those graven images
that first gave way to
a pictographic language
and offered me
a voice
to explain that immutable
all powerful
urge
lust
to throw myself on that
red button and
detonate
burst into a million pieces
and finally relieve that
nauseating pressure
of adipose smushed between
holy bone and
saintly skin
interloping in that space
and separating two lovers
barriers create madness
walls box me in
and yet i grow
an expanding balloon girl
macy’s day parade and
candy littered streets
and razor sharp edges
to steel walls pressing harder
against me than
my supple skin could
ever possibly press
back
i can’t breathe
there is no room
for my lungs to expand
and feel the
fresh sun filled meadow
of crystal air
delivering oxygen to
starved alveoli
and i can’t find your chest
to guide me
in impossible respiration
i’m suffocating in my own skin
from no outside force
but my body itself
turns inward and
shouts its dominance at my
cowering self
sniveling in the corner
of my dusty half used heart
where no blade could possible
land a blow deep enough
to silence the torment and
particular personal poison
a torture to course through
every part of me
activating every single neuron
and making me
hyperaware of my
shame and noxious
venomous corpulence
a reality i
never wanted you to see
but is written plainly
in fiery script across my forehead
and in every fold of fat.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
"I LOVE LOVE!" She shouted, speaking to herself in third person.
It was then that she seemed to float away
A balloon on Macy's Day.
*It seemed I was the only one orbiting earth,
watching those performances of daily life applauding
for a well-flipped omelet a superbly
fitted glove a full tank of gas at $4.00.*
I couldn't believe my luck
Terrestrially, there were husks sipping coffee
and rasping and rustling at each other
desiccated.
Privately, she was buying real estate on the moon
I LOVE LOVE! she shouted
Dancing like an egg on a spray of water
a declassified military satellite who through some dumb luck
had escaped the pull of gravity and won
Marveling at the moon rock
on her finger, even a stubbed toe just seemed
like the ideal opportunity for extorting kisses.
And it glinted in the light.
Everything was fine.
*Down on earth it seemed all the wine drinkers
were toasting to us cheering as we terra formed
the moon.* ***We couldn't believe our luck
as we rolled back our stone.***
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
Thanksgiving is a time that never will I forget
Hopping in the car for a very long ride to grandma's house
With heavy white frost on the grass, glistening in the sun
Singing songs and counting grain bins to pass the time
Now the frost is melting, we are getting close to the grandparents
Rounding that last bend and then their lane up to the house
Riding up to the house I can see smoke coming from the chimney
To the door and into the house, I see my cousins playing, and smell the Turkey
Grandma's brown and gold tablecloth, covered with her silver
trimmed grey dishes and crystal goblets ready for us to eat.
Have to sit and chat while watching the Macy's parade
Saying our blessings and giving our Thanks as we begin the feast
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
Unreality: Thanksgiving Miami Style
It is 70 degrees, afternoon,
sunny Miami winter style.
Nike shorts, flip flops,
polo shirt white,
music, pandora, and
no place he
needs to be.
the collected works and
worries, left behind,
the boy, and he is taking
it to the limit,
wanting a day of no cares,
one more time.
yet, recollecting, writing
impertent, dissatisfied,
no reason, none that I can
irrationally explain.
previous night,
my eyes have
seen the
second-coming.
everybody smiles
happy, looking fit,
tight black dresses
the law of the land.
food flows like wine,
wine flows like water.
lose track of the numbers,
glasses of Cortese di Gavi,
cold and white refilled
in the Miami heat,
exactly, how old am I,
and where
my eyes should
not be staring,
bodies intended
to maim,
after they
**** you.
it is a long-short tale,
how it came to be,
that I am living thanksgiving
in the unreality of Miami style.
was supposed be at the
head of the table carving,
giving secret tastes to
numerous grandchildren,
multiple dogs,
defrosting after the
Macy's Day Parade.
my children, their
kith and kin.
that was supposed to be
my New York reality,
at the head of the table.
divorce, monkey wrench,
I am in a different state,
a different table, a
welcome bystander,
but her love,
my love,
has brought me,
to unseasonal places,
higher and higher,
where I am welcomed
as her man.
not a bad unreality,
but still someone has torn
off a piece of me,
a tasty combo of
sad and guilt,
that I ******* up,
which is why this
writing is my re-righting
the ship of perspective.
maybe I am dreaming
of what was never,
could have been,
should of been,
kidding myself, with an idyll,
the unreality of an idol,
though I vague recollect,
there were meals like that.
think this is my fourth trip here,
sort of, almost a tradition.
BobbyDylan, he reminds
what that woman,
done for me,
been doing to me.
*"I was in another lifetime
one of toil and blood,
when blackness was a virtue
and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness
a creature void of form.
"Come in" she said
"I'll give you shelter
from the storm".*
so she did,
a new reality born.
so semi-sad poem, but
happy thanks to give,
for this day,
new family
embracing, and I am
recollecting,
read somewhere,
you cannot be thankful
for having,
only for giving.
Thanksgiving
Not
Thanks-having
Thanks-receiving
New Reality: Thanksgiving Miami Style.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Shannon, Mariah, Serena, Maria
Meridia, Midian, Sharon, Alliah
Rochelle, Camille, Rose, Halo
Trenna, Jessica, Ashley, Georgia
Marla, Olivia, Sofia, India
Daniella, Diana, Christina, Caroline
Isabella, Amelia, Amanda, Matilda
Nadine, Haley, Bailey, Francine
Eliza, Annabelle, Kathryn, Sandra
Melinda, Audrey, Aubrey, Emily
Tara, Emma, Ginny, Kathleen
Josephine, Helena, Charlotte, Laura
Chelsea, Arkady, Megan, Kelsey
Kayla, Karliah, Moana, Vivien
Kaysea, Macy, Stacy, Lorraine
Theresa, Felicia, Cecilia, Darlene
Holly, Brianna, Alexa, Ariel
Marianne, Miranda, Jennie, Coral
Korra, Daisy, Penelope, Rayne
Zoey, Cassandra, Grace, Stephanie
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
I flip through the pictures some are so great
some are just dull and need to be thrown away
The ones that make me smile are of friends
they are not just any friends
They will love you
And support you
always tell the truth no matter how much it hurts
We have different personalities
and we see the good in everyone
With Macy the one who is always there
is not afraid to say what she thinks
With Grace and her Pride so perfect not to stretched
Without her life wouldn't be so far fetched
With Emma and her energy so crazy and wild
The barn is always dull without that child
With morgan and her loyalty thats incredibly fierce
She will laugh and cry with you
What I am trying to say is we have been through so much
we have stayed with each other and comforted each other
through too thick and very thin
Where friends leave us sobbing I will i will always know i will have you.
When i think of you guys you make me smile
I would die for you really
Because I've got your back Just as you've got mine
So while i bring this poem to an end i have one thing to say
after all the friends that have dissapointed me
I don't trust easily
I know i will trust you when i trust know one else
We will go from thick and thin and who knows what else........
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 2:33 AM UTC
a man gave me that phrase as a gift today.
quiver of constant smiles
for well he could,
yet little did he ken
the nature of the present
because
I read the smiles as the
tween the spaces,
in between the words of
anguish that never goes away
how can this be,
how to make sense of this
well I am a father too,
of words and sobs
and ownership of sins
between sons and fathers,
who inhabit
the unfilled spaces within,
the drawers with their name
on masking tape attached
Your fathers's hell will slowly go by
Show me a man-father
whose lips
have not quiet quivered
when hearing those words sung
we ease the grip of
carrying them on our shoulders
when they are five at the
Macy's day parade,
running alongside their first
solo bicycle ride
we ease the grip of
the vise of
not seeing them for years,
or never again,
cause they hold you guilty,
responsible for their confusion
have too, ease the grip,
cause we got more than one
singular responsibility
so we dad draw,
a smile from the quiver,
that like those of the elves,
replenished magically,
strap it on wide,
mile high and move on
oh you teenage children, you babies,
with your endless angst and bravado
of drunken scar talk,
first love lost
and the hard course
of being sixteen
put down your tiresome blunt pens
that revel only in Self-intensity glorious-galore,
read of the self destruction
of love pains thirty years in the making
and fifty in the undoing
write of ancient inescapable feelings
decades in the vat, aging, but drunk in the
moment quick searing of
every life breath you take
and it's Sunday nite
and the work week hell begins
but it is no compare to the other,
but **** you can't understand
so chant these words,
reflect on them well,
for soon while you dream sleep,
in clean, dry sheets and safe bed
a man will come for a peep,
to make the checkmark
on the all's well list
so chant these words,
a sad violin melody,
the single sole he ever hears,
*Your fathers's hell will slowly go by
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
A famous ship that set sailed
The name “Titanic” a cruise liner marked for preserver, but something down the line failed
The Titanic made it’s way over the seas
Yet on the deck the passengers were treated to an endless breeze
As the music played an elegant melody
The feeling of majestic royalty within red carpet hospitality
This was the first of the Titanic voyage
History in the making for sure
But will the Titanic reach destined shore?
A final night that everyone narrates and regrets
As the doomed cruise liner continued on the waves
Disaster struck with thoughts on did the waves behave
Panic was among the travelling passengers
The passengers being distinguished in the category of who’s who
There was a special passenger and I will give you a clue
The insignia of R.H.
I didn’t give the last name as I am trying to see if you figured out what R.H. stands for
You will be surprised in galore
The passenger was Rowland Hussey Macy
The name associates with MACY’S DEPARTMENT STORE
A store you probably shop today
But Mr. Macy perished on board the ship “Titanic”
Yet he was a man of the seas by way of Merchant ****** from Nantucket
But the Titanic was constructed to be unsinkable
However the situation does make one think as what really happened on the Titanic?
A mystery of the seven seas
Let your mind wander but feel at ease
All the passengers perished, and their soul’s went to thee.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
I hear the smell of chocolate ice cream
Ringing through my ears
It echoes through my head
Like an old ***** in an England church
I can taste Canon in D Major,
Refreshing like lemonade
On a hot summer day
I smell my favorite songs
Like the perfume rack at Macy’s,
When I read the printed word
I sigh, because I have tasted chocolate cake
And when I touch sandpaper
I taste banana cream pie
And when I see you
I hear the most beautiful ballad
Impalpable, playfully teasing me with its notes
Dancing in my head
Waiting to be attained
I never will reach it
But I will reach you
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
there's a Heart of Virginia Festival magnet bleeding out onto the
countertop. it's been like this for weeks, i think. i've
been sitting here for weeks. letting the phone ring and
not picking up. a couple of old strawberries molding in
my palm. two ibuprofen waiting to be swallowed resting
pretty on my tongue, melted down to sulfur and acid.
i'm not the right kind of sick for you. bees buzzing inside my
skull, lazy and
sticky sweet. blood dripping from your face to the tiles.
gutted and fresh and stinking, and
you won't stop carving dead languages
into the meat of your thighs, muscle gaping red and raw
you sit in the bathroom of a Macy's and howl,
like youre wild,
like you're hoping someone will round the corner, fists flashing
and ******* stop you.
youre not a Real Boy, you say, spit it out quick and harsh.
thats what momma said- you'renotarealboy.
faster than before. like you're scared. (i know you are.)
my shoulders go up once, twice. what the **** is a real boy?
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
We're antique and aware of it,
old fashioned and they stare a bit, but that's a part of the charm, a penny farthing to ride on with gaiters to tie on, keeping the spats nice and clean.
Home for some tiffin and the lady's been shopping down at Macy's for doilies, thank god it wasn't Tiffanys for diamonds, the wireless set goes off and the gramophone's switched on, a 78 Bakelite revolves in the room where the mood's right for romance.
We dance modernistic, the Cha cha's futuristic, they'll never do better than this
then we kiss and say goodnight, in separate beds we sleep so tight and a strip of carpet between them, keeping things nice and clean, men,
you know what I mean.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
3.00 am
Just before the sun rose
She doesnt remember if the sun set,even
Time was moving at the pace of clotted blood.
Hardly moving. Not moving.
She folded her hands behind her back.
Touched her indexes and stood.
She was stuck in the gilded cage
That her mind had spun.
She was free otherwise.
Rather, she felt a rush.
But there was something stopping her from moving an inch.
So she stood there.
Her cage. And her.
While the little droplets of sweat, and liquid dropped onto the back of her dress.
Small red flowers on a cream colour
What was done, was done
A lonely soul, in a dark night.
The big day was yet to come.
Choosing to bear the consequence
She stepped back into the crimson war zone
An organised chaos.
A sizzle. A splutter. A crack.
She sat next to her masterpiece.
A smooth stream had leaked.
'So much to clean up' she thought.
But nothing could match the high she was on now.
6am
The shop bell chimed
And she woke up,
The stream had covered her
Her visitor walked in and stared.
At the blur of human, red and knives.
'The buns are perfect Macy! '
'Are they? Well now I just need to fill them in with the jam.'
It was business as usual.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 4:37 AM UTC
mom says we should buy an axe.
she shapes her gum into a moon,
craters and canines and molars,
like a fake suicide on national tv,
the passing of the torch,
the running of the bulls,
the macy’s day parade.
ashtrays don’t lie, but ashes do,
they’ve got their canines and molars
and tongues tuned to calamity,
slick as sunsets as they chop away.
and this fortnight is something you can read,
go ahead, turn the pages,
one to fourteen and you’re caught unaware,
what the **** were you doing,
counting casualties, coming closer to the yellow sky,
it’s petroleum sliding down your throat now.
the human body is 70% ********
and you may meet your quota but you’ll never meet your end,
racing through the stucco in the room your girlfriend rents,
the ridiculous ambivalence seeping through your pores,
staining the sheets you haven’t washed since february,
turning off the tv you were never watching anyway,
letting bulls run and torches light
like that little corner of your eye that twitches when you touch,
like that interrogation manual you can’t read anymore,
the door shuts in your face and your books crush your bones.
and you and mom buy the axe and leave it by the fridge with the broom,
and the more you scratch the rustier the blood.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 8:42 AM UTC
I just saw a Turkey and an oven running down Main Street
The Turkey being the main treat
The oven determined not be a defeat
Trimmings revenge in retreat
The Turkey continues to run
Well the oven and trimmings are all out of breath from so much fun
But they don’t know we are nowhere near done
The oven in a fiery turn
Done or not that Turkey is going to be a cooked urn
But according to a Main Street witness, they saw a Turkey running with a surprised look
Camera’s were ready in took
So much for food for thought
Now what meat will be sought?
However, the Turkey is the tradition
I am on my own Turkey catching mission
After that bird!
You heard!
I caught that Turkey trying to escape
All I had to do was act like an ape
The Turkey is finally in the oven
It’s 9:00 AM for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade to start
Step away from the kitchen and make your mark
A day to give thanks, but on Thanksgiving, I refuse to serve franks.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
Thanksgiving
It’s getting close to thanksgiving day
When every ones table will be on display.
Tablecloths of different patterns and designs
Making the tables look just fine.
Where every mother or wife try to
Fill their hearts delight.
Food dishes and desserts passed down
From generation to generation
Leaving you with a tasty temptation.
On the table a butterball turkey
And a honey baked ham
Both sitting in their juices
In a large roasting pan.
Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes
Green bean salad ,and corn on the cob
It looks like someone was doing their job.
A pan of beans, and a large bowl of rice
Bottles of apple cider sitting on ice.
Everything to make a thanksgiving complete
Spending it with family and friends
What a beautiful treat.
But this holiday can not be celebrated
If it wasn’t for those pilgrims on that historic day
When they spent it with Indians
and learned different games to play.
This was the creation of this
Great country that we all know
And now macy’ s puts on its thanksgiving show.
You’ve got to love it !
© L . RAMS
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 10:50 PM UTC
On Saturday
any Saturday
every Saturday
multi-themed pedestrian parades
pour down commercial corridors
celebrating a holiday known as
WEEKEND.
Middle school queens throw
exaggerated waves
from backseat upholstery tops
in imaginary convertibles marking
the current flow route between
Foot Locker and Game Stop.
Marching throngs display
personal banners on
plastic handled brand bags
drawing peer clusters,
human petaled floats,
vying for ribbons
passing devoutly interested
sideline spectators
now feeling a bit empty
without score cards.
Hippos, thin men, package jugglers
stroll along the branching avenues
labeled in chest advertisements
including everything from
Magnetic Health to Jesus.
No mega-city floatilian
compares to the mall regalia
in a midsize hometown
duck-n-spend.
Though it may be
a little short on free candy
it is still sponsored in part
by Macy's.
Interlocked peddler palaces
reign as shopping centers,
though shopping is the least
of the reasons to be here;
not unlike people going to
a hockey match
are not going to watch hockey,
or partakers in Nascar
don't actually go for racing.
Truth is,
we are all hoping
to see a collision,
Haves with Have Nots,
Lovers with Haters,
Colored Hairs with High & Tights
Refined with Undefined
Talkers with Solitaries
Personal Loathing with Itself.
Unanimously, they all come
for the curiosity of encounter
incalculable, anxious, wanted
or unwanted.
In secret,
dreamers hold royal hopes
praying to Aeropostale gods
pleading favor with credit cards
and a bump in popularity
that if so anointed
the purest of this parade's followers
would be next week's
Grand Marshall.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
the miles between point a
and b are too many
but as always, the race is on
...and oh, yes
i am in a race
of my own creation
brain calculates and recalculates
eyes darting
vehicles
sunlight
road
mirror
(is that an officer of the law?)
i practice the smoothest curves
fluid motions
but at the same time
sweet sassy maggy
follow the rules
don't forget the coffee for the love of god
make it to the one gas station by 7
for fuck's sake, get around the blue car
the black car
the raggedy old truck
before the exit or you know
you. are. ******* for. miles.
for christ's sake, use all your ******* skill
to get a around a stupid slow truck
farm equipment
or a semi
before thou shall not pass
or you know your rage will be uncontrollable
things are going well
you feel confident...you will be on time
you are flying and no one can touch you
your driving is flawless
that crazy sun is shining
and the bass is vibrating your bones
and then t i m e s l o w s
as William H. Macy, you see it
it's that ******* Kia Sportage
adrenaline shoots into my veins
muscles tense
and i slam into manual
4....3
take that!
woman cruising like you're on a lazy sunday drive
smoking a cigarette like it's 1950.
don't you know that i'm in a race,
and you are my nemesis?
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
whenever my mother finds a new hobby,
she becomes Obsessed with it.
Infatuated.
it’s an Overwhelming, Consuming,
Obsession.
but after a while,
After she has mastered her craft,
or achieved excellence in whatever she started,
the passion was gone as quickly as it came.
when I was Five,
I would watch my mother dance,
from the sofa.
tango, salsa, fox trot, waltz.
she would spin around our living room floor,
swept up in her own world,
Oblivious.
when she decided her feet were too tired,
she worked with her hands.
exotic foods no seven year old would eat
she made in bulk. indian food for the next week.
I was very skinny when I was Seven.
when I was Eight,
cooking was soon replaced with wildlife.
our house was filled with animal magazines,
tigers, birds, frogs, fish,
found their way into my mother’s heart.
my mother spent her weekends in the everglades.
then somehow,
documentaries on salmon soon became horror films,
and for a year, I couldn’t sleep at night.
the films turned into books,
and for days, she buried her nose in their spines,
held their backs gently like she was holding a child.
in the Seventh grade,
my mother couldn’t stop running.
running at speeds no Thirteen year old could keep in pace with,
I began to wonder if she enjoyed running, or running away.
panting and out of breath,
I realized I couldn’t catch up.
running wasn’t fast enough for her,
so bikes became involved.
her cycling was about as fast as her cycles of interest.
with her new body, my mother soon rediscovered clothes
in Eighth grade, I watched my mother have her midlife crisis,
piles of clothes, new with tags, spilled out of shopping bags.
her closet busting with clothes I could have,
should have,
worn.
the year after that,
my mother must have rode that macy’s escalator to heaven,
because she found Jesus.
she never really practiced what she preached.
then, christianity turned into world history in general,
which turned into soap operas,
which turned into the computer,
which turned into baking cakes.
now, the icing has been replaced with fertilizer
right now, my mother enjoys gardening.
she spends hours watering her flowers
literally watching the grass grow.
right now, I am Eighteen,
and I can’t help but to wonder,
was I the First?
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 9:44 PM UTC
Peter was able to see some of the ant-like Macy's Thanksgiving parade by leaning suicidally over the 50th floor balcony. I go into fight-or-flight panic if I get anywhere near the railing. The parade passes in front of the building with floats passing 40 minutes before they’re on TV.
Finally, hours later, at lunchtime, Michael (Lisa’s dad), announced, in a low, deep and melodic voice, like God might have used to conjure the universe, “come and get it!”
Which started a pell-mell stampede, luckily, no one was hurt.
Would I be unoriginal if I said, “turkey and dressing are the ultimate comfort food?” The aromas, flavors and textures, like the bubbles in our sparkling, apple-cider faux-champagne, invoke minted, holiday memories and emotions.
I have so much to be thankful for. I’m surrounded by friends, I’m doing well (if not perfectly) in school, I’m in a nice relationship - one that makes me confident and America’s in a moment of peace.
Right as we were seated, 13-year-old Leeza’s phone, hidden in her back pants pocket, chirped and her pale, freckled face turned crimson.
“Oh,” Michael said softly, “that’s going to be a problem.”
Leeza held up her phone so everyone could see it shutting down, “Sorry!” she said meekly.
“Thank you.” Her dad responded.
If things aren’t perfect now - when are they? Our holidays may be stripped back and simplified, or we may be separated from those we love, but I hope you’re all well and happy this Thanksgiving and that you don’t run out of gravy.
Because when the gravy’s gone (that may take days) - I’m callin’ it - this thing is OVER.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Nov 24, 2022
Nov 24, 2022 at 2:00 PM UTC
Syrian pilgrims on boats of hope
Finding no place to land
No one to lend them a hand
No Plymouth Rock to throw rope
How can Republicans cope?
They believe this land is their's
Exclusively, for a Macy's parade
A big balloon with man in stockade
Thanking themselves, saying prayers
Really just showing no one cares
Blaming it on religious beliefs
Though zealots they are themselves
Confusing truer issues as well
Where have gone the Indian chiefs?
To Mexico forced by Trump's police
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
Today I came across your fragrance, your scent,
for the first time in years, and I thought of your pale
skin, your ******* lips, the yielding of your body.
I always assumed it was lotion you wore, as if the scent
and the allure were unintentional, not a purposefully
and seductively placed essence, but simply your scent,
carried so appropriately upon the spring breeze.
Why don't I smell it more often? I wish I could. I don't
even know where it came from this time - some woman
on the street, or wafting hauntingly from a vendor's
cache of perfumes, or through the doorway of Macy's?
The memories struck me like a dull arrow straight
to the heart - I turned but you weren't there, nor did
your scent last for more than a few precious seconds.
It was there and then it was gone, just like you were.
I've obviously never gotten over you - you continue
to linger in that special niche in my memories, waiting
for the occasion to leap sweetly back into my conscious.
--
Sep 10, 2011
Sep 10, 2011 at 12:15 PM UTC
I spent Fall Break with Lisa (one of my college suite-mates) in NYC. They live in a Central Park South high-rise. I hope to spend Thanksgiving there someday because the Macy’s Day Parade goes right by their front window. “Yeah,” Lisa says in a bored voice, “right down there.” (They’re about 45 floors above it.)
Lisa has a younger sister (12), named Elizabeth (who likes to be called Leeza (pronounced LeeZa) and yeah, that can be confusing). Pretty, little, stick-figured Leeza, wears braces, has fluorescent green eyes, long, curly, red hair, and gorgeous, fair, vampire-like skin that’s freckled to perfection.
Leeza is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met - so she’s always surrounded with laughter - and goaded by laughter, she’s fearless. We’re at this posh “On the Green” restaurant (outdoor, terrace dining) and Leeza won’t take her Airpods off (no matter how mad her mom gets). Her dad finally says, “What are you listening to?”
When asked, Leeza stands up and starts singing, clapping and herky-jerky beat-dancing “the Monster Mash.” It was so sudden and funny that I coughed cherry coke out of my nose. The entire restaurant erupted in laughter and then applause at this crazy, scarecrow beauty’s brief, comic performance.
Someday that girl’s gonna be a STAR.
Oct 25, 2021
Oct 25, 2021 at 12:05 PM UTC
*mostly
I survived
like a spectator
at a Macy’s parade
my head, anonymous,
part of a blur of cold colors
and checkered sounds
that lined the
straight shores of the concrete stream
of the non floating floats
so it was for many a season
nothing to report,
no rhyme or reason,
until
the heat
of the delta
where I watched you
floating
--not amongst other floats
--not in crisp Manhattan winter
--not with manufactured mirth
and seasonal symmetry
but with a mangled monkey body
shredded by the rounds
from the M-60
my friend used to blow you from the shaded shore
into the muddy Mekong
all ten years of you
who did nothing except
stand in his sights
wearing black pajamas,
being alive,
for him to ****
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC