"piazzas" poems
I.
something within me,
maybe its my amigdala,
misses the oven-turned-gentrified clot,
that great collection of want,
of transient soles-souls.
I miss how we’re piled three stories high,
so close to each others’ mouths that we must
burrow in criss crossed, colliding tunnels
to our point b’s, our job sites,
our lovers’ houses.
maybe it is indeed part of our un-nature to do this,
to cling to one another even
as our unforgiving sungod bakes us whole,
cornish game hens on the el train,
hurdling 40 mph, to and from
our personal hovels, heavens
and bedsheets,
tethered to this place, possibly indentured,
definitely flawed,
where we revel under roofs to prove incredibleness
an virility.
II.
our eyes are not closed today.
they may not blink in unison
as mannequin lids do,
so effortlessly, plastic and mechanical,
but those, we are thankfully not.
for we are flesh,
and air, and miles of gastrointestinal turnpike, if unpinned,
would stretch from here to panama.
we are each of us
a viscous mound called
Sally, Bertram and Queen Mary.
We are the collision of milk flowing, divine,
a whirling dervish
in scalding darjeeling.
we are air,
gliding over enamel into the collective breath
to be devoured so sweetly by others,
as saintly man-scripted gelato,
dribbling down our chins in piazzas.
la dolce ************* vita.
III.
that’s the funny thing about living
in this size 2 world,
the ability to appear anywhere upon its face at a moment’s notice,
to be in front of any face when desired,
to live sans toll booth or customs desk,
to simply dust off our ability to fly
and tumble icarus-adolescent into the collision
between the two blue planes called sea and sky
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC
pigeons perch themselves preening
on marble fauns ambivalent to their
perch, while dark skinned men prowl;
seeking tourists (Americans) to sell
cheap novelty items, over priced, yet
bought to drive away the insistent
merchants; ignorant to the realization:
if you remain silent and don’t make eye
contact you will not forfeit your money...
merchants who ruin the peace and awe
of grand feats of sculpture—I know they
are human (on a base level)—craving
money to make a living, yet there are
many (more respectable) professions…
their presence crowds the already
crowded (streets and) piazzas—aggregates
of language babble—old women and men
meandering along waiting to die—hoping
it is true: the slower you move the faster
time flows—if not: to hell with relativity!
(should have put chips on more than one table)
can math really explain all?—or
is life more than abstract objects?
while the din of crowds palpitates my heart
making way for anxious calculations,
C— and I hurry pass to find some area
to give the artefacts the respect they deserve
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
Dear Florence,
I remember the day I first saw you. I swear that is the only time I ever believed in ‘love at first sight’. You were as calm as the meditating soul. Your passing wind soothed my beating heart.
In that first ride to my new house, I knew. I knew you were going to be my home. I knew you would mend all of my aching slits, stitch after stitch. Each day you bestowed me with a new beautiful day to inspire me, to metamorphose me, even more poetically than the phoenix rising from its ashes.
I knew, one day, I would say goodbye. Chasing your dreams can sometimes be a painful journey. I knew leaving you would shatter my soul into little pieces, strewed all around your streets and alleys and piazzas and bridges. But dear Florence, you deserve so much more than my little-scattered pieces.
As I say goodbye, pondering over the Santa Trinita bridge, I become forever yours. The joys you have given me, the memories of which will wander along through all my journeys. My sorrows, the memories of the flowing Arno river will always wash away.
So, as I leave this place, I request you to take care of me. For ‘the me as I know it’ has become ‘the me as I knew it’. I am leaving behind this version of me for it is only in your shadows did she glow bright. Let your pink skies continue to set away all my anxieties. Let your rising blues continue to give me hope. Let the shining gold, always guide my heart home, just like the Duomo always guides us in its warm embrace. Let your ringing bells, help me rise every time I stumble. Let your art, keep my imagination flowing and let your symmetry create order in my life. Let your changing skies give me strength and inspire me to never stop, come what may.
Take care of me when I am gone. Just like you have over the past year.
Forever yours,
The girl who never really left.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
Once upon a time, we shared a Tuscan moonlight,
A reflective glow illuminating our worlds
Thousands of miles apart,
But shared nonetheless,
And it’s ochre glow hummed down on you
Just as it would thrum down on me
Several hours later.
Once upon a time, we shared a Tuscan moonlight,
Sharing a cool breeze after a
Day oppressive with heat that
Cloaked the world like a long absent grandmother,
And fruit flies hung in the air like a beaded curtain
In your world
And gnats hung in the air like tossed confetti,
Frozen in time,
In mine.
Once upon a time, we shared a Tuscan moonlight,
In the same timezone,
In a village described as “Italianate,”
As though that might mask its very
Californiance,
And we dreamt of a summer day in Italy
With countless stairs and winding paths
That unfurled like a waterfall onto sleepy piazzas like a
“Once upon a time . . .”
And a shared Tuscan moonlight.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
Dear Ian
The First always tastes like honeyed-sunlight on cheek and windowpane:
first kiss, first cigarette, first rooftop.
I never wanted to come down.
Dear Greyson
Beautiful and empty.
Our hands didn't fit right.
Dear Anton
Thank you for kissing prayers into the crosses on my forearms.
It wasn't enough.
I'm sorry I kept you on your knees.
Dear Eli
**** you.
Dear Wyatt
We were high and you were there.
Your mouth tasted like sour milk
and I was lonely in the morning.
Dear Ian
Snorting coke off my naked body was all you needed.
I think I caught you too late.
Dear Cody
Thanks for the ****
I'm sorry I made you leave--
I couldn't stop looking at the orchid petals falling on my windowsill.
Dear Howard
I never realized my power
until the day I let you finger me in the seasonal section of a CVS.
Dear Sky
Loving you was like loving river currents.
I lost myself in the way you looked at me like
you were looking past me.
I'm still learning how to let go of dead things.
Dear Jessica
I was high on painkillers for the 6 months you tried
to bring me back down.
But if you had a condo on a cloud
I'd have stayed at your place.
Dear Robert
I just needed a prom date.
Don't read into it.
Dear Sarah
You and spring rains are synonymous.
Dear Vanessa
Venus.
Someday I'll come back.
We'll paint piazzas into dusk.
Dear Maya
Your lips were swollen honeysuckle and I was all hummingbird.
I wish you could've held me after.
Dear Alyson
We never met in person,
but the way you glittered behind my phone screen
fogged up the glass with light-hot possibility.
Our timing wasn't right.
Dear Amélie
"On n'aime que ce qu'on ne possède pas tout entier."
Dear Izzy
I would've sewn stars down your backbone.
That night at the End of the World, we held eternity in our fingertips.
or maybe it was just the *****
Dear Brendan
Drunken lapse in judgement.
I'm not "experimenting", I'm actually gay.
Dear Sara
I wish I was looking for something casual.
The Washington Sq. Park fountain will always be holy.
Bless my forehead whenever.
----
Dear Jesse
It's time to fall in love with your palms.
They fit together perfectly.
Plant chrysanthemums in your abdomen
and let yourself bloom again.
Like it's the first time.
Like you owe it to yourself.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
Spare me your venice.
I know it's beautiful, but
I've four more senses
And a nose
That smells stagnant
Water and ****
Floating with pretty buildings
On the Adriatic.
Spare me: its Doges,
its saints, its Campanile.
Spare me piazzas and
inquisitive xenophiles.
I've got all the water
And **** I desire
Floating in pretty alleys
Beside the black Thames.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 9:55 AM UTC
My city is not built of walls,
But memories cemented by senses.
A Colosseum of an evening;
Of rustling sheets and the smell of ***
Bright strawberries and smoke on my tongue.
A Forum of conversations,
Of late nights sat on steps,
A little worse for wear.
Piazzas and Palazzos
Of dinners and nights.
Each stone a touch, a look, a kiss
Until our city is as eternal as this,
Populated only by me'
Watching it crumble.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
Footpaths and footpads
pickings for bad lads
and the South Bank
the bank they all
banked on.
On piazzas and plazas
they all dress in pyjamas,
it's high fashion they say
to wear out the night
in a day.
and I wore out my welcome
on a day just like this
no kiss goodbye though Lord
did I try
a cold handshake
was all that it took
and more or so I
thought that
I could possibly
take.
There's a sting in the tail
always is and
without fail
I fail to admit it.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC