Holiday = A new Poem

Permission

to request

attention

Smack down

for tall poppies

Christmas with your family

drunk Englishmen

in summer

wildly good-mannered

still, kind.

Or a twisted

Broadway musical

scene

with my family

an obligation

served by proximity

The apartment is

cozier

because I’m planning

to stay home more

The month flickers

A perfect transfer

twice I walked

straight onto my train.

This represents

another year

without you

No more lamb

roasts

people hardly feel

the need to eat

here

let alone share

I’m saving up for a

feast though

Bring Love

and leave your temper

at the door.

Quietly loudly

I realized that I had all but abandoned this blog, when someone commented earlier today, on a post I wrote back in May 2007. I have been busy in the blogosphere, still i miss this style of blogging and want to do it more. I promise to keep checking in when I have something un-Brooklyn-Socialite-like to say. This will be a good home for my straight up poetry and prosaic vulnerabilities. Accordingly here is a poem dedicted to my good old Bridge and Tunnel Days of yore.

Lincoln Tunnel

Some people swallow the rhetoric hard

I seem to spit it out instead

In a dark tunnel

The Lincoln

And struggling for a pen

To recycle the song

Not hate on the rhythm

Eco warrior blues

Infiltrate

All that swims in ink

On once

White culture-free

pages

Paradise Island...

Obviously thinks highly of itself. Self-reflection was not at issue in the naming of this long strip of white sand. Oprah has a house here and the now Bahamians were once brought here from Africa as slaves to serve the British empire in residence. Now they are referred to as "The Natives" by the resort holiday-makers who line the sand sardine style in their designer beachwear. Paradise as viewed from above would appear something like a Kafka-esqe nightmare, giant cockroaches groping towards their beer. 'The natives' walk around in cabana boy, and modern English maid attire and provide for the resort goers every whimsical desire. Perhaps its time for the island to consider a new name.