The Rose That Grew From The Crack In The Pavement

I heard about a rose that grew from a crack in the pavement.
That's a beautiful image,
But have you ever seen a rose grow from a crack in the pavement?
Have you ever seen something beautiful grow out of concrete? Anything? Ever?
I never have.

Rather, I have seen grass grow from cracks in the pavement.
And weeds, the kind of weeds people swear at while they dig them out of their rose garden. They hack away at them, tear their roots out, poison them.
Don't people pull those out of the sidewalk, when they grow there,
And I wonder, are these the same people who speak of the beauty
Of the rose that grew from the crack in the pavement?

Little, scrappy, funny looking weeds that nobody would ever say were beautiful,
Trampled on, pulled out or slowly turning brown, these are what grow
From the cracks in the pavement.

And yet, there is nothing more heroic
Than the little, scrappy, useless weeds
That grow from the cracks in the pavement
Where the roses are afraid to venture.

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.

Seconds To Morning

It's getting late, and you're cold,
Winding down like a tin ballerina
Getting lonely, getting old
Even though you're still a baby,
Still a child, expected to be maddening and wild,
Scribbling in your whole universe in crayons,
Or maybe if you're a little older, black leather and chrome
Guitars and fast cars and all the shiny loud trappings of space
Between boys and men, again
How many times will you learn it by rote:
The heart that was broken
The mind still mistaken
The soul that's so modern it's fucking medieval,
It's brilliant, it's shining like a Fender guitar, brand new,
Your manhood distilled into strings and an amplified soul
Isn't it cool?

Cool, cool fucking freezing,
You're an absolute fucking iceberg,
And your fingers are falling off while you type,
While you beat your torturous prose out on a dirty keyboard
As if filth automatically lends you credibility,
'Cause you're a modern day Rimbaud, aren't you,
Clean little white boy in the suburban jungle darkness
Wandering the asphalt deserts of California with a picture of
Humphrey Bogart in your pocket, rock star, movie star dreams,
Fuck you, I'm going to Hollywood, you say, I'm going away
Far away, every day of your life could be better, you could be famous,
So fucking famous, a voice in the darkness, a light, a light, oh my God
Somebody bring me a light he's gone dark, my poor little boy
Did you see what it was that hit you, no, you didn't,
Oh my God, doctor he's bleeding, he's bleeding, he's dying
He's bleeding all his dreams out from between his legs and out his eyes
His poor little baby blue eyes are bleeding all over my dress, bleeding...

Bleeding colours out onto the carpet,
Salvador Dali paints himself all over the walls, and he can't breathe
For the brightness and closeness of his own fucking grasshoppers
Get me another drink, I can't see yet, Maggie, it hasn't clicked,
There's a click that happens in my head, and then I stop drinking,
But no click yet Maggie, not yet. Not yet, Maggie.
Maggie, Maggie, Maggie the cat, get the fuck off my roof, you're making a mess
Dripping pathos and Southern Comfort into my gutters,
And get Faulkner out of my freezer, his sentences are crowding out the food
I need that there, it's all that's left in the house so get your fucking Southern authors out
Out of my house, get the South out of my house, the South is in my house it's in my blood
Slave-owners and drunks and ne'er-do-wells, they all came together to make me so I could
Hundreds of years later bawl up to Maggie the cat, howling at her to get the fuck off my
Fucking roof and go home.

Home, blue house in Berkeley full of dark wood
And phonographs, but it's gone, it's gone,
New houses now, clean, sterile, pretty as the pure white of my scars
And I could always reach the counters, always, I was never reaching
Just there, doomed to my new adult size, never looking back at my crayons,
Instead I've got a Fender guitar, jet black and loud, shiny, Freudian
Phallic object, since I've got nothing else, nothing else but my shiny guitar,
And I'll be a fucking Humphrey-Bogart-rock-star god, I will become God,
And blast Maggie the fucking cat off my roof, and the nightmares will flee before me
And my shiny guitar, and we'll melt together, my guitar and me
So I can be a sexual object instead of pasty mismatched flesh,
The ultimate object, desired, used, play me like a standard riff,
Write all over me, I am the time-honoured woman-shaped cock of
Pop culture gods, loved for the moment then unplugged and wrapped up.

Up up, let me up you fucking bastards, take the straps off, I'm awake
Oh god I'm awake, don't start yet, I'm not asleep yet
Put the scalpel down, please, please, don't start yet
I've never done this before, I'm still scared, still a little boy
Will this make me a man, give me freedom, I don't care
Oh my god I'm not asleep yet, let go of me, please
Knock me out....

Anything, anything, hit me over the head, make me sleep
Make me dead, make me unconscious, unfeeling
Anything, anything but banging away on my dirty keyboard,
Making up voices in my head and feeling my stomach churn
And my brain run in circles, give me anything but sitting, sitting
Counting seconds to morning.

"The Madonna As Patti Smith"

Oh Mother, whose sins did I die for?
Was it the drunkards or the leeches,
Or the rock and roll messiahs you replaced me with?

Oh Mother whose sins did I die for?
Was it Rimbaud or Verlaine
Or maybe Sid Vicious?

Maybe they belonged to someone you tempted
Or someone who corrupted you
Or maybe the people you loved and lost and threw things at.

But they weren't yours.
You told me so.

Sunday

It's too late for breakfast
Too early for lunch
And there's nothing you want to eat, anyway.

The sun is shining resignedly through the blinds.
You've been in bed all morning, but you're still tired,
And the bed is sucking like a lugubrious swamp.

You've got nothing to do
And no one to do it with, anyway.

Maybe you'll just walk around the house in your underwear
Until darkness comes.

The Library

I will write my mind
Into the papery regimented arms
Of Noah Webster.

I will pour the oils of my skin
Into lamps for your tables
So I can light your insides
Like hot coffee or an orgasm.

I will build my bones
Into the framework of your shelves
So that others can drape themselves across me
Like I used to do to you.

I will darken your heavy desks with my blood
So that they will be distinguished
And seem vaguely human.

And I will leave my ashes on your stairs
So that you will not forget me.

Noir

Mind if I corrupt you?, she said

And my mind switched to black and white

It became night time in a big city full of lights and rain

And she took a drag on her cigarette, then tossed the butt into the gutter

Where the lipstick-stained filter fizzled into darkness.

Not at all, I said

And I mentally adjusted my fedora,

Removing a lighter from my coat pocket

And lighting her second cigarette, as well as my own,

And she took my arm as we walked down a seedy alley

Take me home with you, she said

And I made my book-filled bedroom

Into a cheap flat on the east side of the city

Owned by a man who never asked questions

As long as the rent was payed.

You want a drink?, I said

Pretending I had proffered bourbon

Instead of my usual black coffee made in the ancient coffee pot

In a shot glass, or maybe a bottle

Instead of a chipped mug.

She put her arms around me,

And I allowed the credits to roll,

And the camera to fade to black.

Tin Man In The Holy Land

He said I need me a heart, and they sent him off walking into the wilderness, over sea and stone and through wind and water and into the kind of landscapes that turn men into lunatics or poets, through the trees and the grasses that smell of sweat and blind faith and sex and he walked for forty days and forty nights pretending he was Jesus walking in the desert, pretending he was vast and all knowing and forgiving.

Tin Man walks into Israel, through bullets and children to the wailing wall of Old Jerusalem, through the sands that are made of dreams and death and rape and the history of a chosen people, and Tin Man says to the wailing wall of Old Jerusalem, I need me a heart, and the wall howls, and Tin Man feels its tears and watches as the mothers of the Holy Land cram themselves into its stones and wrap themselves in its tears and howl in harmony, and he walks on past the wall, past the widows and into the streets of Israel.

Tin Man in the streets of Israel sees a procession of kings smoldering and disintegrating into the dusty heavy air, he says, I need me a heart. Tin Man hands Solomon an ax to split the baby, and Solomon he takes it up in his hands and takes a little child of Palestine in his hands, and brings the ax through it in a gash and that little child of Palestine crawls into Tin Man’s arms, and Tin Man says child, I need me a heart, and this little child of Palestine sticks the ax through King Solomon’s head, and Tin Man’s feet start to rust from the blood.

Tin Man walks on to the River Jordan, and he stands on the bank watching John The Baptist talking to the sands of time, and Tin Man says, I need me a heart, and John The Baptist whispers to him about love and death and fire, and the purity that is violence, and the glory that is God, and the power that comes with being excused from sanity. John The Baptist says to Tin Man, let me wash you clean in the river, and Tin Man he says but John, I need me a heart, and John The Baptist picks him up and carries him into the River Jordan.

Tin Man rusts and washes away, and the River Jordan rises and washes the streets of Israel and wails with the wall of Old Jerusalem, and Tin Man says to the Holy Land, I need me a heart, and the Holy Land says nothing at all.

Crude Maps Of Africa

I found a preacher on a corner, he was selling crude maps of Africa and cheap plastic rosaries and bootlegged whiskey, and I said to him, Father, do I have an immortal soul?, and he said, son, you'll never know till it's too late, and I said well what am I supposed to do with that?, and he said take this five dollar bill and bring me a sandwich, will you? So I walked down the street to a corner store where they used to sell falafel until September six years ago when it inexplicably disappeared, but I didn't know this, I hadn't been there for quite a while, and I was disappointed, I've always had a fondness for falafel, and besides, it's a nice word to be able to toss around in conversation, but they wouldn't sell it there anymore, so I bought the preacher a roast beef sandwich, and tried to find him an orange soda, I though it seemed heartening at the time, the bright sunny orange liquid, but I couldn't find one so I brought him back his sandwich and his change, saying, Father, here's your sandwich, and he said you done well, thanks, and I said let me see one of your maps, so he handed me one that looked like some six year old God-in-training had doodled in the coastlines of a fabled continent, making all the boundaries that human nature would have it have shed more blood for every pen-stroke than all those many fish in the sea they keep telling us are there every time one goes swimming off upstream look so petty, in waxy bright red like finger-paint and the messy sanguine childhood I am vaguely aware we were all supposed to have had, but I think I left mine in a box somewhere, for I remember my childhood's imaginary wildernesses, but none so violent and exuberant as the preacher's crude map of Africa, and I handed it back to him and walked on, whistling slightly, and he receded as I passed more buildings, tracing their outlines in my head like crude maps of Africa.

A Passing Fancy Of Addiction

I have an enduring fantasy that I am a drug addict. It sounds so simple, to have all my feelings on the label, and all my problems distilled into clinical side effects. I could open a bottle and swallow happiness, or calm, or energy, and I could feel exactly what I wanted to feel, and nothing more. I could have faith in something, in my addiction, it could be so wonderful to know I needed something, to surrender to an impartial chemical and to know that tomorrow it will be the same, and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. I could be dependent on something, I could long for it, and having acquired it could make me still. I could fall in love with a reliable constant compound of chemicals devoid of mystery and rendered non-threatening by their clinical studies and the medical jargon pasted across their bottles, and it would make me someone else, someone good, someone firmly planted in a still haze, no longer volatile and human, sleeping through the night. I could put something in my veins that would change me, reshape me, make me symmetrical and beautiful and erase my jagged pencil marks and leave me one strong line of uniform ink. There would be something pure inside me, something good, something else.

Upside Down Mermaid Dream

I have dreams where they cut me open and move bits of me around for hours and hours and hours and I feel nothing, and then the sedative wears off and I am standing by my bathroom mirror, and my neck is gone, and my arms are hanging awkwardly off my torso that has become a giant ribcage with flesh stretched precariously like silly putty that's been pulled in opposing directions for miles and miles, and I have become a hideous bony fish with legs, they made me a fish with legs, I think., reflecting on mermaid myths, and remembering how I used to think they applied to me so well, and now it is inverted, they flipped me upside down with scalpels and pills and I am an upside down silly putty mermaid, a bony fish with legs and my own head, my own familiar face in all its pimpled Anglo-Saxon adolescent glory, floating over the giant ribcage that is traced with a scar pattern I know from libraries worth of books, scars I long for in replacement of the vicious brand of a mother goddess with a sick sense of humor, those surreal familiar scars are traced across my fish skeleton torso, how sick, I think, I am an upside down mermaid covered in scars, and stretched like dough and elastic across bony protrusions. They never told me what the recovery time was.

To The Girl In The Photograph

Hold on, little girl

Safe inside your photograph

Be strong, little girl

Maybe you still have a chance

Once upon a time,

I was just like you

And if you saw me now

You'd wonder at it too

It's too late for me,

But you could make it through

Hold on to your life

Don't let me take it away from you

Sleep tight, little girl

While you're not yet a memory

You'll be alright, little girl

You might never have to meet me

Once upon a time

I had the chance to be

What you will not become

And all because of me

I plucked out your blue eyes

Just so I could see

If I still remember you

Is there a chance you could forgive me?