At the Louvre

 

2nd draft, discovered from 2012

The steady glow of morning

softens the sea of wood floors,

and all the portraits become strikingly clear

vessels in time.

I am a gaunt faced man who forgot

to shave his whiskers this morning.

Instead I woke up feeling hungry

and decided to go to the museum.

My legs propel me to my favorite spot:

Lisa, how she never changes.

But today, her sails are loose

in an ill-directed wind.

Beside her, a new portrait awaits:

a woman with two noses.

Lisa sniffles:

“Tell me, how ever do you sneeze?”

“Sneeze?”

“Yes, of course, sneeze! You couldn’t

fit your noses into a handkerchief

at my dinner party!

And for all your curves,

you couldn’t even seduce a rat.”

At this point, I try to interrupt Lisa

to remind her she hasn’t had her coffee yet.

It’s a cruel thing, Lisa, picking on

other portrait’s noses.

Lisa does not hear.

“Did you know that when Time

takes his evening stroll, he bends to dip

his hat at me?

“I have sprinkled seeds of poetry

in the hearts of thieves and kings.

Men have moaned in blood bath

over the curve of my lips.

Have you watched Napoleon weep

over his Josephine’s womb?

His King Louis XIV bent

in the shadow of your sails?

Do travelers mingle your name

with escargot and rare wine?

“But you, poor blazing masquerade,

are a rowboat in an ocean’s tide.”

And then the youth replies:

“I smack gum,

smoke jazz, and

sizzle

like graffiti

on summer- washed walls.

Oh, I throw!

my anchor into the stars

and sail

round heaven just for fun.

I am the symphony

of a hurricane!

           

my back a cello,

            my eyes,

trumpet blasts.

My laugh!

like bike bells

in a parade.

How I love

            to march,

                        march,

                                    march.

Oh Lisa, a sailor is better

with two noses,

and the masses will decide

my success.”

           

The people file in,

and the morning’s charm is broken.

I check my pocket watch.

It is a good hour for French toast.

Hush

Discovered from around 2012. Enjoy!

Hush.

 The lake bathed

           In  the  shadows  of

                                                                   fall and the     yawning of

                                                                   morning.              

        Beside

         the

         board

                                                                       walk

                                                                          murky

                waters

                freckled

      by water

              skaters murmur

            while the reeds rise,

     fall, a frog rustles, thrums,

                                                           a bird chimes, and squirrels stir

                                                        in  hurried duet  to pluck an acorn

   from its nest. The score grows, and the

      trees, dressed in gold, enclose the dark waters

            with their brightening limbs, while the fog lifts in

slow dance, steaming into sun-breath. Now they descend,

            a flock of white, billowing sails, strong and wide, upon the dark,

the waters held by light. The light a silver, golden glimmer. Gliding on, on, on.

Once & Still Roman

(draft 2)

If one could have a love affair with a city,

I might be tempted

to take Rome in,

undercover,

just for a day.

Rome would smoke his cigar

and tell me about the panini

and bus protests, the heat, and how at night

the Colosseum still fills with its ghosts.

Then Rome would sing

me a song I heard once in a

ristorante by a man wiping

display windows,

whose deep voice sauntered

for the sake of singing,

or for the afternoon break,

or for living itself.

Rome, you re-arranged me,

I would say after his song

simmered to a whisper.

Then he would lean back in his chair

and take a long, slow puff of his cigar.

Go on.

Well, I don’t quite know how to

put myself back together again,

Before I met you, I didn’t understand that

every city has a birth,

a life,

a death.

First, I measured in you in mornings:

the beggar on the bridge,

the dogs at the water spigot,

the quilt-patch buildings, and the stiches

of street lines.

And in Roman nights:

the old man with the thick arms

of an ex-convict,  

who sold tender, silk bags

of lavender for 3€ each, 2 for 5€.

And below my window,

the women in stiletto,

the clatter of dishes, a river of voices,

and bell-chimes of laughter

as I chased sleep.

Then I learned to measure you in vino rosso years,

in hundreds, even thousands (as well as any American can).

vino rosso, meaning: the perfect blend

of bitter and seduction,

in which the glass is never emptied,

in which I implored of saints and of billboards,

of ruins and of vespas.

In which I watched your thousand deaths

and rebirths with aching fingers,

the words in my journal crumbling and moaning

like a drunkard trying to paint

an angel.

I also measured you in vino bianco days:

delicate, siesta days,

when my eyes felt heavy with sleep,

and I sat in the balcony to watch

our neighbor’s clothesline flicker

in the warm breeze,

and my American home was just a yawn

and a cat’s stroll away.

Rome, you seduced me with your white wine

days. You re-arranged me

while he waited.

The way he and I talked,

words full as a plate of pasta,

but the slightest—

was it hesitation?

lingered in my mouth,

impossible to trace, as if stained on my fork

before the meal arrived.

We spoke of the lover’s locks

clasped to the Ponte Milvio bridge.

But I never leaned to drown

a key in those brown, eternal waters.

Maybe then I knew

our kisses were collecting dust.

Every city has

a birth,

a life,

a death.

So goes the saying.

And I see you, Rome,

in my city and in myself.

I still cross sidewalks illegally,

and if given the option,

I’ll take my coffee strong in a

small, porcelain tea cup.

And I see your bridges

and crumbling pillars in my

poems.

Sometimes, I wonder,

what will happen with them?

Will they become their own Forum?
Will tourists of some kind

sweep in and purge,

pointing with cameras

and sticky fingers,

or will these written memories

be tucked away

like the sacred dead under church

floors, in cemeteries

below

cemeteries?

Every city has a birth,

a life,

a death.

Rome teaches this most.

Here, we like our hours

clean, and sharpened to the minute.

But

for all our archiving,

at the end of the day

our clock hands

still twist toward Roman dust.