Poem #4

Sometimes the best way to be touched is metaphysically.
Between us, I crave this mental discourse
The one where you tell me all about my past lives
And how you knew me in Paris back when
The Dadaists were throwing roses on
everybody’s heads.
Or the time in Italy when I was carrying
Buckets of water on my hips
Letting the source flow from side to side
Mimicking the rhythm of women
Drenched in the green smell of basil.
If you could let me touch you and if you
Could believe that I saw that this is the first time we’ve met.
That this pairing is as new as the lives we put on
The last time we stepped forward from death
Maybe you could understand that it’s not
The touch of our of skin but
The way in which our worlds intermingle
That bring passion and a newfound delight
To the worlds that we’ll create
To the endpoints that we will travel
Powered by light and love and my
Endless reminder to speak directly to my soul
So I can hear you better.

Poem #3

The past is surrounded by empty lots
All those broken places sitting in waiting
That we used as homes for all the pent up dreams
Yet to come
Certain avenues defined by the discrepancies
Between each building
Livid in the negative space where
The sky peeked through in stolen urban glimpses
I stomp my feet now
On the solid ground of cement and
Whatever these bars are made of
Putting my headphones on outside gym windows
To create a choreography so much better
Than the one these buildings fossilized
Beneath the stale air of undeveloped land
Ready to be excavated when the time comes
Or we give in and crumble into the echoes
Of what used to be (and smile)

Poem #2b

Who laughs at basketball? I want to ask myself. I do, I’m the one who giggles at the violent squeaks of sneakers on grown men, giving in to memories of elementary school. Mornings spent in the cafeteria before being joined by our classmates. Children of working parents dragging our toes along the slate linoleum, finding satisfaction in the lines we drew among us.

Each scratch became the opportunity for us to become a human eraser. Licking fingers before smudging the darkness out. Immediate satisfaction, the floor before us good as new underneath the little pills of rubber. Knowing then like we know now that erasure is the furthest thing from reach. Rubbed raw, feeling the permanent damage of the squeak and the din and the production value on these courts.