poems: bratislava (untitled)

here's another poem I found stashed under my bed. It's also from 2001, but a little earlier in the year. This one's certainly not as successful as the last, and it's full of the melodrama of the early 20s. Not that melodrama fades all that much, but it does change in distinct ways.

Bratislava is where I saw you
or them or whatever I wanted to see
for years there's no other explanation
to account for premonitions
suddenly sprung like Slovakia
after decades of communism I too
need a new plaza or a faltering fountain
proclaiming independence of course
I make mistakes but the rows
of workers' housing are yours
I'll return to live here for months
traverse the bridge daily
the moment the square
the incessant glare
and I'm there in the courtyard
monumentally alone
I remember december

poems: the apology

moving is funny because you find all of these things that you've stuffed under your bed or pushed to the back of your closet. Today as I was looking through an old box of political stickers I found a poem I had written in 2001 just before starting my final year of college. Time is a trickster. It's called 'the apology' and looking back I can't remember to whom I was apologizing.

the apology

there might be an end
there might be a pause
or flicker or something I don't understand
on days when you feel so lucky
you could cry well I do but
I've always been sensitive I can
apologize for the rest of my life
never buy anything remain
in Virginia till the movie reel
runs out of film but I doubt you'll
even notice the difference in the distance
I feel the approach of Chicago
and there's one more year
and what else can I fear
I'm sorry I'm leaving
I'm sorry I'm sorry
the empty canister slid under the cabinet
collecting dust I wish everything could be
different but solutions erode with age

city poems: seattle

sometimes one word attaches
the paper begs for an addition
Seattle reading Moby Dick sipping coffee
rhythm of raindrops into Puget Sound
I should jump on a boat journey across the seas
instead I'll knock off your hat
as someone had in New Bedford
halfway across the century
the day of my dad's birth 1944
year's later my inheritance
grows in affinity for the port cities

transit poems: station victoria

station victoria

on the subway back in
Boston dad always preferred
the journey to Auditorium
something about the name called
over loudspeaker declaring itself
in the present tense of time
here I am in London and I
might venture to Embankment
but Canada Water lures me with promises
of refreshments and Saskatchewan natives
I know I’m in Europe not because
no one knows my name but
no one knows I’m American until
I open my mouth and the secret’s exposed
and no one cares except for the
few who understand that they’re
being bought by our culture
I buy into yours while you buy into mine
yet in the long run we all know
that those who derive pleasure from the
stately ambiguity of subway stops

will ultimately diminish to haze