The Transit Museum

On the bus back from the city I saw

a broad lady reined by overcoat

pause in the studded crowd.

Ten minutes later

I remember her, how the storm

washed the sepia sidewalk, 

how all the pedestrians stopped

before the finished painting: this street

was not dark or any one color,

but a stained glass wreck

of angles and men.

I saw the truest mess soak through that street.

And now I press my brow

to my water-veiled window as this vehicle

sighs into Short Hills.

Out there, 

even the remotest puddle holds its pose.

The unfeeling foot hesitates

over its own reflection, then

stumbles back

into the black and white

photograph of this drenched town, 

so false under glass.

Emo Endeavors

I wrote my first unquestionably bad poem the other day.  It reminded me of the time this nine year old at my old camp ran to get ice cream and accidentally stepped on a baby bird.  For some reason.  I will post it, anyway, of course.

Untitled

Just dismiss as imprecise

these lined and written hands.

I seek out stations to replace

our bygone garden shade.

We bide in fire seized

beneath ceiling fans and snow, know this traffic

like an age: even I

fear these amber fires as home.

My heart sits, my legs ache with peace,

I am almost dressed.

All the while I adjust my faith

to the flesh of your bedroom, those

untouchable walls, soft toys

whispering once the doorknob grasps

the imminence of arrest:

you ask nothing, but hover

amongst the lost flock long gone

from your eyes.  And as they see me

to the stairs, I am made a child,

holding fast to the rail, to the flightless

arms of a falling elm.

Testing, Testing...

This is my dumb first post.  I have no idea what the point of this blog is yet, but I decided I want to keep one after abandoning my adorable xanga two years ago.  I predict most of the crap on here will be as self-deprecating and aimless as this brief introduction.  Enjoy.