Coconut Dreams

I wake-up from coconut dreams
smelling like suntan lotion.
Wooden planks creak and complain
as I walk to the kitchen to make coffee,
to shake the sweet REM hangover.
The air ripples the nylon nightgown,
goose-bumps travel along thighs,
bunny-eared slippers stand to attention.
The poster of an anonymous beach
stares mockingly.
A low giggle swirls along the floor
stirring dust, underwear and socks
like a strange cake mix.
The wind shakes the trailer,
knocks the ashtray onto the stained carpet.
The big, used bed calls collect
and I accept the charges.

Image via Ariel Rose.

It's crowded in here.

It's crowded in here
an elevator stuffed
with a man in a brown polyester suit
and tie that reaches his belly button
a woman chewing bright green gum manically
while twirling her bleached curl around a cigarette stained finger
a cyclist, holding unto his blueberry helmet
fluorescent strips wrapped around ankles, wrists
flashing in the reflection of the overhead light
the quasi-geisha flicks her jet black hair
her face reveals deep-set shining marble eyes,
crimson lips, powdered skin
A girl dominated by freckles plays inside her nose, looking
for hardened secrets, while her mother fidgets nervously
with her electronic Casio watch, stuck in a time warp,
teased brown bangs wave upward
shaking brown fists at a sedentary ceiling
A small Dachshund is all beady eyes and tucked tails,
shivering in the corner, consumed with worry about being stepped on or eaten
Fat man Jack extends a greasy smile, sweat rolling down temples,
his wolf-printed t-shirt growing concentric dark spots,
nails bitten down to reveal a pink swelling
Squeezed against a white-starched nurse in purple Crocs,
creased with cracks that have grown from the corners of her eyes outwards,
spreading fast alongside deep puffed pockets, cushioning blinking eyes
close and open
open and close
a rhythm people start to notice despite themselves
It's crowded in here.
Cheap musk, fabric softner, roasted coffee, McDonald's fries soil a bag, stale cigarettes, wet fur, watermelon gum, sweat, sour eggshells, pheromones, mothballs, a crushed peanut butter sandwich, crispy perfumed hairspray, all mix like a potent alchemist's concoction swirling above a sputtering fan
in the elevator

MILK

Cloudy, opaque, creamy pools
rock steadily at the bottom of gummy bear imprinted plastic.

Circular ripples cascade towards warm shores
so that it’s hard to recognize the dense richness
lapping at ankles, forming skin around edges.

Experience like a bowl of Cocoa Puffs
slowly transforms white milk
into a caramel tint,
gradually tainting ripened brown waves.

Soggy balls bob like shipwrecked seamen
drift further away from comfort,
into uncharted sweet waters.

She stirs her long, lean and elegant silver spoon,
hoping to give rise to some answers
Mistaking puffs for alphabets,
creating currents with her search for letters.

‘It’s not a black eight ball darling’
‘You won’t get any quick-fix responses’
Her mother starts to gather crispy, hardened breadcrumbs,
to leave a trail for someone, anyone, later.

The girl turns the cereal box around in her hands,
reading cardboard stories,
‘Did you know that one bowl of Apple Jacks makes you jump and snap
with sugar rushes and popcorn highs?’

She likes to imagine magic ingredients
will transform customary mornings:
pink bunny eared slippers shuffling into a Formica kitchen
sitting at a blue and white checkered tablecloth
waiting for mother’s voice to pierce an early dream mist

Exchanged, instead, for handsome tattooed sailors,
gallantry and greased hair right out of the 1950s
Fiery wisps of smoke escape nostrils,
full-lipped mouths whisper salty sea secrets.

She holds the spoon to her ear,
so she can hear
soothing chocolate words that create an intimacy
so dense, that they gather like beads of sweaty condensation
on temples, glass pot lids and rolled up summer windows,
so rich, that she can feel the buttery sense of communion
spread languidly inside her

In that brief moment, futility lifts, purpose crescendos
Radiant purple lights cascade into the room
like bright spandex clad ballroom dancers.

Spotlights move in synchronized rhythms
The cloud disperses, a cool illuminating breeze
runs through her hair, faint clapping heard in the distance

Until she clumsily drops her spoon
milk splatters, breaking the spell
‘Now why did you go and do that honey?’
her mother’s voice a pick that breaks
multihued ice into neat little chips
used for refreshing Mai Tais, G&Ts and Mojitos at pool parties

Cover-up

Lush, volcanic and redolent passion fruit
Rip apart already torn lime-colored seams,
cough-up soft, glistening black-studded interiors
to release a perfumed ripeness
that Coty could never replicate or capture,
only attempt to stuff nature’s muffled voice
into pear-shaped rose decanters.

Scents of patchouli, verveine and lilac
stir, pace and circle like a testosterone-injected pit-bull
at the bottom of stone-encrusted crystal
refusing to crawl and creep slowly to the edge,
to walk the red and white striped plank.
Refusing to jump into the chamber of experience.

Existing solely to fill the gaps,
to conceal the putrid stench,
camouflage the intoxicating smells:

a rotting apple, yellow pools that sway in broken brown eggshells,
moldy discarded bread crusts, shriveled red onions,
slabs of rejected fat still shiny with grease,
orange cigarette butts caked with dust, shredded ConEd bills,
wrinkled and stained Sunday papers, crusted beige prophylactics,
ripped toilet paper soiled with red kisses, rusting banana peels,
coffee grains and plastered white pieces of fettuccine
that give the black plastic an interior design,

all of it neatly concealed,
held together with thick dark Glad easy-tie bags.
Evidence covered and closed,
only the scent remains.

Fighting for the core (a process of writing)

It's a struggle sometimes to get to the heart of meaning, or what you mean to say, who you are; the process of identifying and honing your voice, your way of seeing and writing about the world. At times I find layer cake instead - sponge white moist layer upon layer, camouflaging meaning, which is further complicated by the voice of inner critics (harsh, immature and heckling interruptions). This poem attempts to capture this process...

The unraveling
I want to rip off the clothes
on all my words until they stand there
stark Bic blue pen naked
revealing the bare and unabridged truth
(letters stand shivering)
I want to rip out flowers
tangled in muddy patches, roots digging into dampness
and pluck each petal one by one
there is no room for dressing, ornament
I want to break down each construct
So carefully built, layer pressed upon layer
bricks laid for years, slowly to rise to a lopsided castle
that envelopes and protects all in its walls
I want to unwrap and marvel
at the surprise of unexpected tempos
unleashed like hunting dogs
intoxicated by the scent of wild rabbits
I will strip slowly, gloves landing first
on laminated wood floors
undress, undo, uncover
until peach flashes
like headlights on a cold, tortuous highway
words like Russian dolls cover each other
a tight embrace
painted meaning lost in shells
chambers that camouflage and season
being and intention
words my fair weather friends,
play games on the rain with polka-dot umbrellas
covering me from piercing stares
bare all or fade away
comfortably into the background
authenticity is the grain that exists
lodged inside wondrous fruit
Fuck me, I'm taking a bite
I'm tearing it apart
shaking letters down
finding the expression locked inward
flushing out inner critics
losing stage costumes, rhinestones and pearls
until I stand
wet, dripping, naked
in the middle of an empty stage
without a part to play
on display
in the midnight circus

Speaking my language baby

Numbers wearing sideways hats
parade around my imagination
holding up alien phrases
Magic code morphs into images and text
Languages multiply
building barriers between realms
Digital to the left
marching to the sounds of electronic beats
Offline Dizzy Gillespie blows on his tune
Yet they meet in dark backroom lounges
filled with yellow smoke and the taste of stale cigars
Emulation of creation again
Hollywood became monotonous
Dream weavers stitched together infinite possibilities
Binary beginnings
in the shadow of transformation
Solitary confinement for the good
of mass and fast communication
Immediate message shower screens
changing, shifting, the pattern of speech
The extension of fingertip mouths
Move back to speech
Ping-pong development
Life in between
the visceral and virtual

All good things...

I had my last writing class last night. It was a great three months - it's funny how just when everyone is most comfortable with one another, the course comes to a close (or rather as one of my classmates put it - 'when people finally feel comfortable enough to be assholes' (regarding critiques). My final project involved a series of 10 poems (one below), now I just have to create the right themed glove for them to fit in...

Sisyphus

Rocking Stones on fucking repeat
no no no
hey hey hey
perpetual yearning
a DEMANDING
tearing out your hair
crazed look occupies eyes
scratching through surfaces
to reveal caramel, mushy, nebulous clusters
of nothingness
too many substances rolled up into one
drop forever out of reach
golden carrot shining, gleaming at the end
of a knarled, tattered, old beat-up stick
chasing running hamsters on wheels
light brown abstractions float,
but speed by hastily, movement in shadows
the roundabout quest
searching like bounty hunters
big beasts parolling highways
flourescent stripes
emulate concrete skunks
the more they find,
the more slips from their grip
and
d
r
o
p
s
as they fall and tumble downwards
hands grabbing at clumps of air
arms held put
expecting everything
but left with empty fists

The Commute

Wind screamed and whistled
like a big Texan at a rodeo
subway intimacy
staring into sand, honey and blond
strands
blue ridged rubber floor
holding onto strange surfers
the buzz of the silver car
sounds like time travel
quietening petulant morning fears
transportation
held tightly in the embrace of warm bodies
rocking to and fro
a collective set of leaves
on a parched bark
a respite
break from destinations
Chinese beats faintly
pepper the backdrop
deep rumbling below
like miniature jack hammers
which jolt to a halt
as the train swings or swigs
a drunk losing his step
while holding unto the bottle
moments held frozen underground

Ineligible bachelors

Standing, sad and gray
covered in braided gold chains
that twirl and unlock to make out grand letters
trilby hats stacked and cocked to the side
30 minute shadows grow like black weeds
piercing through pores like mid-evil spears
a revolt against middle-aged mediocrity
YSL bags under deeply pocketed eyes
reveal miles crossed, the furtive search
for brand name meaning
foot on top of pedestals
weary yellow curled toe nails
poke their way out of undersized plastic flip-flops
Charcoal fly wings cover pale and emaciated calves
in stark contrast
to a grossly overworked upper body
confidence from the waist up
dressed and wrapped like shining Christmas gifts
silver, blue, red and white
swirl across the sparsely haired chest
Hawaiian tee-shirts screaming
thickly trimmed tortoise shell frames
leaning slightly forward
in a desperate attempt to stand out and up
against the greasy skid jump of a nose
sprinkled with blackheads
disguised as sun-kissed freckles (feigning health)
forgetting their origins
in the shocking pink of it all
an exhibition of caricatures
colored and removed from natural habitats
leaving behind cubicles with random pictures
tacked into blue felt partitions
amidst cacophonous symphony of rings, bleeps and shuffling
the caged listless animals
let loose
prowling squeamishly on presumably trendy streets
filled with UGG laden damsels secreting money and honey highlights
prancing
in front of made-up men
doing a peacock-feathered rumba
putting the Queen on display
like a cheap prostitute in ripped fish-nets
creative scarlet lipstick bleeding outside the lines
the crass walk of fame
echoing with the footsteps of pointed two-toned
flat carnival shoes
click, clack, click, clack
an almost sexual cooing call
pronouncing a muted desperate cry
of a people lost
still fumbling, crumbling
at the feet of deceptive gods
while some hide behind lush burgundy velvet curtains
cackling at the sheer absurdity
of grown men with piercingly white teeth
decorated in gold caps
(no silver lining in sight)









Dating Electric, Fabulous photography by Adrian Samson, located in the reception area of the Proximity building. Amateur renditions shot by yours truly.

The Restaurant

The door swings open and close
people revolve around one another
the scent of juicy burgers, hand-cut fries
and strange assortment of diner specialties
malteds, Black Forest Cake and pickles
sashay and twirl filling the space
the menu's a book
bible for the epicurious
stacked like pancakes, pages curve and shine
curve and shine
covered in sheets of transparent plastic
to avoid the fate of the table cloths
that cringe at the scent
of freshly roasted coffee
scarred, marked
with rings of brown designs
left with traces of breakfast #5
pink stains freckle the fabric
like the sun touching a susceptible redhead
holes poked by over enthusiastic toothpicks
unknown patterns begin to form
from buttery mash potatoes that missed their mark
abstract artwork revealed
as people stare into the stains
each meal an imprinted memory
greasy yellow hoops
contain late nights of stumbling and giggling friends
ensconced in favorite corner red booths
surrounded by silver bars that cradle like a poster bed
omelets secrete swiss cheese
trying to escape yellow folds
first dates drink milkshakes
nervously spilling frothy cream
another spot
until dots meet and disperse
spreading across patchwork material
a rich tapestry of existence
moments locked in time
that dance and hum to the beat
of a small mini jukebox
Madonna on sale for 50 cents
Borderline wafting through the slow moving fan blades
hum and swoosh
whiz and turn
quietening the pain of stains
suffered by once white fibers
reduced to a faded melody by bizarre shapes and colors
material covers every dining room table
all elements changed, touched
the dirty, sweet, messy, beautiful, strange
fabric of life