Movie Cigarettes

I have never ended my sexual encounters with a cigarette,
But the image is somehow appealing,
Not literally, but metaphorically,
Or theatrically. It's how I'd want myself played in a movie.

I'd want the crowded late night movie to see
Some traditional closure, in what would be
A terrifically edgy, groundbreaking film
In topic, cinematography and writing.
Perhaps it would be in French.

All the characters will smoke,
Because it's a sin you forgive movie characters,
Because you don't have to smell it, all you know of it
Is how cool it looks, how glamourous the two lovers are
Smoking in bed after a (thematically and narratively important)
Round of shagging.

Then, of course, my character would have to smoke always.
He'll be a chain smoker, tragically handsome and deep,
Brooding and forever slightly hidden beneath the brim of his hat.
There will be a scene in which he learns of some tragic, existential event,
And soothes himself at his typewriter with cigarette after cigarette
As he gazes (with swelling, uncomfortable thematic music to underscore it)
Out across the Seine.

Before the credits roll, he will finish his cigarette,
And wander down a narrow boulevard,
Pondering his fate in this weary world,
And tossing the butt of all his old, non-cinematic selves
Into the gutter.

Boy At The Piano

He is writing a song that uses every key on the piano.
Every black key, every white key, he wants them all,
Not one left behind, alone.

He is writing a song for his people
And my people, and your people, and everybody's black people and white people,
Not one left behind, alone.

He is writing a song that uses every key on the piano,
Because he could not bear to leave one lonely, or to see one,
Not one, left behind, alone.

Evening Walk Haiku

Empty coffee cup
Abandoned on the sidewalk
Used up, and tossed out

Many pairs of shoes
Intrinsically animate
But still not alive

Familiar streetlight
Unlit and useless until
Twilight steals in

Silly little boy
Ice cream precariously
Balanced in his hand

A destination
Much more precious than its end
Because windows glow

Stare out the window
Of the well-lit coffee shop
Longing for the rain

Books on Kennedy
A different bookstore, but still,
Such a reminder

Feet against the ground
Tramping off the largest street
Winding towards home

Sex

Sex
Is
So
Fucking
Complicated
And
Hard
To
Write
About
So
I
Will
Type
Only
One
Word
Per
Line
And
Maybe
That
Will
Make
This
Poem
Seem
Artistic
And
Edgy.
I
Will
Then
Proceed
To
Avoid
Words
Like
"Profound"
And
"Oneness"
Because
That
Would
Make
Me
Sound
Stupid.
I
Think
Writing
About
Sex
Is
Somewhat
Redundant
And
Trite,
And
We
Should
All
Just
Find
A
Way
To
Get
Laid.
This
Poem
Did
Not
Go
The
Way
I
Expected.
Much
Like
Sex.

Alone At 10 O'Clock

Alone At Ten O'Clock

I have had too much coffee,
Because I was automatically drinking it for hours
Just because it was there, in front of me, and, well,
I'd hate for it to go to waste.

The quiet of the neighborhood seems heightened.
This isn't a rough part of town, it's pleasant,
Gentle, with an elementary school a block away.
I am seized by a need to play on the swings,
But a young man in the darkness on a swing set
Tends to arouse questions that fill me with paranoia.

Still, the swings beckon, even from my bedroom
Where a thousand other distractions lie.
It must be wonderful to feel the night on your face,
I think, like flying. The metaphor is too simple,
But the image stays, of flinging yourself into space,
Back and forth, safe in the grip of gravity and the wind.

I harbor a fantasy that I will go to that playground,
In the evening, when it's raining, with a girl I love
And we will waltz around the asphalt like movie characters
As the camera spins and heightens everything, making whispers
Into quotes to be tacked on posters.

She isn't here now, and I am convinced that the swings
However inviting, cannot be visited 'til she comes back again.
It is a strange thing, to sit and feel someone else in your cells,
And to know that she is tied to the outside world as well,
To the rain and the night and the swings.

Perhaps, if it rains tomorrow, I will go to the swings.
When she comes back again I know I shall.
But rain is seldom seen in summer,
So I will wait for the rain, and the night, and her,
Until all three collide with me at 10 o'clock some misty winter night.