Tag: poem

i know, i am a bit old
school. i like cyndi lauper,
and jack lemmon and shirley maclaine
in the apartment. sometimes i cry
at films, never at funerals.
i do not have a car, or a driving licence,
for that matter. why would i if my whole life
is within walking distance?

standing in the darkness
of an empty bedroom,
i watch the october night
washing the last passers-by,
mocking their umbrellas
and hoods in the lifeless lights
of the office building across
the street. from time to time
i return to my secluded kitchen
where, between gnossiennes,
i cook pancakes, not quite sure
if for your longed-for arrival
or my departure.

i was a little blunt in my remarks this morning,
maybe even a bit too blunt. the thing is, when
someone hurts you under the mantle of love,
and you no longer have any hope, you lose
faith in love itself. it ceases to be something
real. the good news is that the wounds will
eventually heal. except you will never get
rid of the scars.

if you are following the distant shadow
of phaedrus or would like to take part
in the symposium, if you find delight
in the sonnets, wake up; there is no love.
maybe gays know something about it,
but even among them, it is probably
mostly lust. but in the straight world,
you are a sperm donor once or twice,
occasional muscles to move a wardrobe
across the room, and always an atm
made of flesh and bone, and naivety.
but once you are no longer required
for the former two, she will dump you
like an unpaired sock, unless you fit
into the upholstery of her new sofa,
as a chiwawa.

sometimes i wonder if you like me
writing about you, even if it is not
really you, and i am just as elusive.
i could be your upstairs neighbour,
annoying you with the creaking
of floorboards or a typewriter song.
you could be that cheeky redhead
playing guitar on the fire escape
balcony, humming what might just
become the lyrics of your first hit.
and when we bump into each other
at the front door of the building,
exchanging some casual greetings
and commenting on the weather,
sometimes i wonder if you like
me.

they can not see me, girls, or women, i should really say
at my age, and with that faraway look in my hazy eyes,
why would i be surprised? even you only see the words,
not the man behind them, and i do not blame you for that.
it is not your fault, but the reality of the world we occupy
with ever-multiplied, fed with all the borrowed dreams,
soul substitutes.

we met by chance at prospect park. i was wandering around
looking for… i am not sure what. you just wanted to lie
on your back and photograph the sparse clouds in the sky.
i do not think you told me your name, or maybe i just forgot
to ask you, listening to the sound of your absent voice.
when we were passing an elderly gay couple walking underneath
the restored endale arch, still wearing masks but with a gleam
of joy in their eyes, i finally dared to take your hand.
one of them noticed my clumsy move and i think he smiled at me.
perhaps i reminded him of all the awkwardness of his first date.
i just hope that one day, my final ending line will be half as good
as his warm smile.

sometimes i try to remember what it was like
to share secrets in the darkness of moonless
nights, but all i see is the shadow of the posts
of our bedroom’s crumbling breakwater, where
we embraced the scars on each other’s bodies
and always regretted it, but regret is all we had.
perhaps you could add to that all the voicemails
that have not been heard, that we are still afraid
to delete.

so you are just a regular brooklyn girl
in that striped blouse and armbands,
looking thoughtfully into the distance
from somewhere near the williamsburg
bridge, as if you were playing at wenders’.

someone said you were bored, but i think
it is a longing for something reassuring,
as we all have moments when we have
to stop at the edge of the pavement to see
if we are still able to keep our serenity.

and now that i know everything about you,
there is still so much to know as i stare
at you with my blank, unseeing eyes,
sketched with a few bold pencil strokes
on the back of an old bookshop receipt.