Category: poetry

sometimes i whistle christmas carols
in july. for two reasons. i like cheerful
tunes and i am always amused to see
the surprise on the faces of the people
around me. or maybe i am just trying
to find out if i have not forgotten what
it is like to be funny, if i have ever been.

when i read an old german jew,
i shudder. he knew the power
of words, and some of his own
still sound disturbingly relevant.
but what is much more worrying
is this unforeseen era of strong
angry men that came later.

i have heard my body replaces
all cells every seven years,
so i am a newborn man then.
therefore, do not blame me
for invading your home
decades ago. i was not
the one who chained you
to the basement wall
and forced you watch
your wife and daughter
raped. it was not my hand
that held a knife that slit
your son’s throat. i was
reborn so many times
that i forgot about you
in the basement of the house
that i now consider my own
family home. and yet i have
a feeling you would not
let it go so easily, brother.

of course it was all just
theorising. i am not going
to do any of the above.
but as you watch
the fireworks tonight,
think about bear river
and clear lake
and yontocket
and marias
and three knolls
and cypress hills
and bridge gulch
and wiyot
and camp grant
and sand creek
and …

if i had caught myself stranded
in a cheerful disposition, i would
have found this inconvenience
a self-indulgent retreat of will.
but let us stop there. is it worth
dwelling on your wrathful youth
now that it is just a faded scar?
yet something tells me that there
are marks that no tattoo can ever
cover.

sometimes i think of a man
with an alarm clock in his pocket,
hurrying to catch another day
he overslept. his phone was left
silent on the kitchen table
next to the half-eaten sandwich
and a mug of half-finished coffee.

sometimes i think of a man
trying to live up to expectations
of answering some half-baked
questions about his personal
pronouns. the grammar book
he used was written at a time
when it was still halfway simple.

i wear plain t-shirts made of washed out
stains of a faded past, a fabric that makes
the guanaco look cheap like upland cotton.

i know i am a bit of a dandy, just a little
worn around the edges, like a pocket square
never really used for anything, a trifle.

an old notebook with clumsy attempts
to impress a girl reminded me of her
burst of laughter. and she was gone
before i even finished summoning
my poor teenage soul, buried alive.
if only i knew that someday i would
hear the cry of seagulls over the saltire,
or that half of my life could be denied
with one glance away. and all of this
was fated the very moment i paused
at the sight of her long auburn hair
and when i wrote my first stanza.

i was trying to figure out
what your name is
and at the same time
forgive myself for all
the things i did not know
that i did not know. you
are a girl from the north
country, or so he said.
i am a fugitive of my own
carelessness. we have
never met. but i still
wonder if you remember
how beautiful you are.

i know you sometimes
listen to my words from
afar. and i sometimes
soothe my thoughts with
your smile sketched
with a piece of charcoal
on the wrapping paper.
and although we are
separated by many miles
and years, we can still shed
a tear to the same record
played on the old turntable
before the night ends.

from yesterday’s wounds
i am slowly bleeding out
my disdain for today.
even apples in a deserted
garden no longer taste
as they used to be. the only
thing that becomes more
and more appealing
are the sharp words
and edges.