"Muse" - 4/20/13

my first love was a punk-rocker
who happened to not be a musician at all
circumstantial and irrelevant especially since
he knew more about irreverence than I ever will

he was wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt sixteen
when I met him on the street (I was such a Slavophile)
couldn't speak a word of English something
which worked shamelessly to our benefit

he first heard me sing on a Sony Walkman
I played him my demo which was synth-pop crap
didn't know it at the time but he must've heard
something beyond my impolitic teenage taste

when someone sees you as you could become
they are loving you unconditionally contrary to those
who deem unwavering belief as an effort to alter
the essence of another or otherwise oppose what's true

I've often reflected gratefully that decades ago
a poet more passionate than clever – in a country
from which I'd fled before birth – recognized in me
rubies more than I did ruminating one day

I'd detangle melodies in ways that had delivered purpose
to him deliverance from oppression destination catharsis
Grebenshikov was my first love's foremost muse
Russia's Bob Dylan (rhapsodist, once-removed)

I treasured the vinyl he gave me so much clutching the cover
square-shaped heart in clumsy hands unaware I'd ever aspire
toward something so symbiotic (my Jupiter 8 collected dust
thereafter, the backup battery of '80's-inspired arpeggios

programmed gleefully died quietly) unbeknownst to me
one bright day decades gone by I'd wake up espousing
music without surprise is barely listenable and empathy
in all it's glory is the most intrinsically resplendent instrumental

I'm so impractical because my first was so ephemeral
no words no choice no loss no agenda even our goodbye
was merely a beginning of something else I'd search for
in every man or woman I've loved thereafter always excavating

for insight craving wisdom short of absurdity
passion to such a ridiculous degree that chaos dances
breathlessly with eventual calm wailing sirens

water roses scented something like a psalm

"Spring Cleaning" - 4/8/13

How exhausting it is
To pretend not to care
Spring has no patience
For less than effusion

I've learned to be silent by listening
To street noise: arguments laughter sirens
But holding back's against the spirit
Of this fierce city and I'm nothing

If not a New Yorker at heart
Pretending not to care
Is more than I can muster
I'd sooner just sing to myself

I believe when people die
There's nothing after but memories
Of having listened, for better or worse
Weather is a chance-transfusion

How else would we remember
Loss awaits at all points along
Lust's footpath while deflecting love's
The demise of truth

How exhausting it is
To pretend not to hear
April winds have no secrets from

Tragedy's collision with hope