Residency

I didn't bother to look
through the piles of papers that were still there--
pictures, playbills, greeting cards, relics from the past;
everything that you held dear,
everything transparent.

I wonder if it was intentional.

I remember the first time I came over,
that was when you put it up,
my little laminated poem,
next to your MetroCard, and several other
memorabilia from the great city,
there I was.
I thought I had joined the club,
that I had claimed some sort of a residency
as your New York poet.

Maybe I took it for granted,
maybe I was too proud of my citizenship to realize
that even with the state ID in my wallet,
even with the phantom New York accent on my tongue,
I should have opened my lips
a little wider when you asked me to,
the first time we kissed.

But I was too obsessed
with the black and white of your hair,
the frosted asphalt of city streets I
remember thinking must be
so soft,
so unbelievably forgiving,
until I fell face first into it.

Suddenly, no longer a lullaby
are the city lights, the traffic lights,
the gunshots, and the subway trains
crossing over the Manhattan bridge--
I wish (you) were still above me.

Two poems on nostalgia

Clean

In the bathroom mirror
I saw the shadows, the stains, and
the scars left on my body
after I had tried to grasp onto
parts of you that I wanted to imagine as eternity--

The soap was pearlescent when it came
out of the dispenser;
it was only when the bubbles appeared,
and the lather on my skin turned pink, then red
did I wish
if only forever could feel so slippery on my hand,
a lifetime so easy to wash away.

"Visiting" (Ending Credits)

White lettered
words, names
sinking slowly into
my heart,
not quite pitch black
but close,

as there is no room
for voices, no time
for limbs, no place
for faces,

five seconds
to show each person,
an entire body
abstracted on a screen,
no soundtrack,
just grey.

Description Obession XII

I don't know when it started,

whether it was the sleepy look you had

or the scratchy voice you claimed unusual,

somehow I refuse to believe

that you don't naturally sound sexy—

the tenor range smokey as though afraid

someone would discover

the fragility of your light blue gaze.

Light not in hue,

but in weight, mass,

your reluctance to gravity,

and all the earthly elements that try

to pull you down and keep you.

No, they can't, and neither could I

because your entity is beyond slumber,

beyond the human desire to rest

and become one with the quiet night,

the pitch darkness.

Your mind simply do not allow it,

you exist as a singular subject

parallel to the never-sleeping earth;

you recognize the simultaneity of day and night,

just like you understand how dangerously close

love and hurt lies

on opposite sides of a coin.

But your hair,

the disheveled calm after a sandstorm,

or just the softest sandy brown I've ever felt,

how it contrasts with the fullness of your facial hair

speckled in grey

and an overwhelming sense of delayed urgency,

like an accident that's sorted itself out

over time, and pain.

Adelaide

I don’t quite comprehend this landscape

the perfect line of houses by a blue river,

and the superimposed smoke cloud

from the bushfire in the distance,

this place so mundanely familiar

yet quietly discrepant from

what I recognize as Americana

life and language,

just as I can’t understand the syllables

of this black hair blue eyed romance beneath

the taxidermy peacock,

found within a bookshelf filled with lyrics

I wish I could read, love, and own,

for my love words exit the throat

and are shaped by my tongue,

a sort of tasting before spitting out

meaning broken down by enzymes

or sentimentality—

but for him it’s all in the lips

as though he only cares to eject

sounds and the emotions an afterthought;

the implications, secondary.