I find it tough to cross the street

I find it tough to cross the street--
14th, already, smelling of babies' cries
loving children and mothers in
two, almost three languages commanding--
sun at its peak, almost, of
night, haziness like the wave of a lover
across the floor, both old, new

at once a caress or a slap on the back
a scratch on the forehead
as the bus cries and weans
on the street's milk. Darker than
me, laughing hard, and me
smiling as a mug of coffee
dove-tailing and red.

Most days are long fingers
pointing either at me or out.
So tell me, fair: better, then, to
tattoo my eyes of my lids
or sit against the street, red
but looking.

[Things I am jealous of]

Things I am jealous of:
the way in which some poems
may walk from living room
to bedroom, arm in arm
with a lover; and love,
in general, for being so steadfast
and terribly obscure
except in eyes, feet and longing,
and thus more accessible
as we touch, from living room
to bedroom, simple as broomsticks
or rather, painted bright red or green.
Eventually, the sun will draw
against my love's belly
and her body will remind me of a semicolon
one brief end and always
a continuation.

What's large should belong in my hands

Love is
held purposely by harp strings
strangely enough, an instrument
I can't play
though try to what is
large should belong in my hands and
held together
by plants never knowing which
is favorite/love is/
gathered together like Queen Anne's Lace
walking down the road
love is
what is
large should belong in my hands
gradually and with pace
a slow twine grows thick on the
forest bed, strong
love is.

Caught

Ruffled a bit, plowed through
vine-ripened, as if,
tricked up to a point
and most definitely fingered--not
in the sexual way rather
accused, rightly, of holding
something of value
salted sad strolling
keep in mind that the waves
you remember
pounded at a space
not chosen necessarily
they kept returning was and was
this is the beach
this the shore
and rocky, the colored cliffs.

Before the Year

Crisp buttons on the shirts I ordered--
my dad ordered khakis, which I can
never spell right on the first time.
Lovely, these songs are for you, whom
I trust, who has loved me for months
and at times I wondered stupidly why. And
listening to my feet drum and a terrible album,
and checking available apartments then going
to the bathroom, suddenly. Dear lovely:
flowers, flowers in summer and honeybees
disappearing. Evening are cool and magnificent,
expensive cars swing their way down the street,
sweet pollen drifts with an easiness, a devil-may-care
attitude. Who will pick them up and carry them.
Mothers lining up at school, guardians, the walkers.

Poem In Praise of Not Caring

I am pro no bullshit. Like a dog
is pro food. I am in favor
of taking my hand and never shoving it
down someone's throat, searching
for gold. When a bomb is
deconstructed, whose body is inside?
I vote our mothers'. That way when
it explodes, it spreads dust that smells
of a son's fear of punishment.
I vote our daughters'. When it falls
it screams the high pitched whistle
of a father's pride that dies
when disappointed, then suddenly rekindles.
I vote men. Men sell only three things.
Who counts the dead? Not caring is how land finds rest.

One Train (after Kenneth Koch and Daisy Fried, and a little comment on the sleeve)

Intensely serious beneath a surface of lightness
one train clunka-clunks and swerves

just a tad on the track, and husbands
and some single men blink tightly, fearing

their choices--seat, career, this trip, this seat
--a lightness beneath the surface of intensely serious

while one train passes astoundingly
and quick flashes of children gloat at their real selves

giddily dancing, a speed-dream, a quick, delightful scare,
and they--being two--scream shrilly,

gleefully while husbands and some single
men, intensely serious beneath a surface of lightness

shroud themselves in love and what it means to them,
like shrill children or soft, caring fingers--cold, but only on the tips.

And while some men sneeze, one train
clunks to a slower-running speed, releases steam,

whistles--which never sounds high pitched, rather an alto's "Whoaaaaa,"
not a siren, nor a banshee, just a call.

Lightness beneath a surface of lightness.
Intensely serious, they whistle, as if all one train.