National Writing Month Poem 1: Sickness

National Writing Month Poem 1: Sickness

There must be a word for this: anticipating the worst, my gut lurches—
the g train full of hipsters getting off in dangerous neighborhoods
in the hope it might be the perfect fit, the skinny jeans of their dreams.
My stomach a warzone, ready to explode. Yesterday morning,
in Greenpoint, there was a blast. We could feel it under our feet
in the house, the ground shook, fire engines raced down the quiet street
I live on. I read this morning that the sound was a factory exploding
and the map lead me to my block, two blocks down. Last night,
I retched into the street and when I thought I was done, more sickness
wormed its way through my mouth, between my fingers, down my shirt.
Embarassed, I apologized to my lover but he didn’t mind, though he hates
throw up, all kinds. I lay sick in bed for hours, waiting for the next time,
listing all of the things I ate today, yesterday, before then, searching
for the ingredient, the substance, making me ill. I decided not to feel.

Winter Comes

I think how lovely it would be to be in Paris or Poland,
among the masters of the past, the poets of the future,

but instead, I am in New York, city of my birth, where
the tourists crowd around Macy’s as I watch a friend shop,

but depressed and broke, I do not buy a thing.  How funny
to go inside a store and walk out empty handed, like the other day,

when I strolled into the Met, picked up pretzels, bread, and milk
and put them down soon after, unwilling to lug them in my frozen hands,

without gloves. I’d only gone in to get out of the rain. 
I tell myself it is raining in Paris and possibly snowing in Krakow.

Winter comes and with it, the cabs, tourists, raindrops mass
on the sidewalks before everything, even a city, shuts off.

New(er) Poems

 CONEY ISLAND AT NIGHT


The ocean at midnight, lights of
near defunct Coney Island blazing
like burnt out stars or bulbs breaking
one at a time, shooting glass,
Shoot the Freak, booths abandoned
in a junkyard, in these late hours,
shredded stuffed animals share space
with hot dog buns, Nathan’s containers
slotted by the crisscross of the can.
Seagulls sleep somewhere but
the absense of their echo is felt.
The smell of ocean and beer slips
beneath the boardwalk and wooden
beams heave under the weight
of the blond burlesque dancer
who has completed her final turn.
We run into the water like children,
not dipping our toes into test
instead pressing our whole bodies
forward into the dark blue sea.

My poetry in online journals

Barrier Beach and Half a Letter in tinfoildresses

http://tinfoildresses.synthasite.com/spring-2009.php

My Father at the Met in Pirene's Fountain

http://www.pirenesfountain.com/archives/issue_05/current_issue.html

Another New York Poem in Ozone Park

http://ozoneparkjournal.org/Fall_2008.html