An American in London

I like to think I'd be a part of Hemingway and Fitzgerald's posse.

Month: February, 2014

The little boy.

A little boy fell on to the Earth.

Out of the sky he droppedĀ like a bird from a nest

and thus proclaimed his love for all things

as everything to his eyes was new.

Across rivers he swam

and through deserts he trekked

with swollen feet and bloodied hands.

Finally he came across one like him.

A body with arms and legs

and a head like a balloon sat atop them.

Through his travels the little boy had grown to be as tall

and as he approached his fellow man

with his burly beard and bloodied arms outstretched,

the man turned away, repulsed, and quickly fled.

The boy began to cry.

Tears which did not fall

but returned to the sky from which he came

and soon his torn and ravaged body along with them.

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I think.

I think I could have been great.

Like when I was young

and I ran and ran and

ran

and my lungs never ached

and my legs never tired

and I was great.

I was triumphant.

I was magnificent.

The royalty that I was

hung from my shoulders

and rolled out before me

like pavement of gold.

I think I could have been fine.

Like when I was adolescent

and I dance and danced and

danced.

As womanhood began to snatch

me up and pull me apart,

I danced

and I was fine.

I pirouetted through puberty

and I was fine.

I was ok.

I think I can manage.

Right now

as I write and write and

write

for no one,

for myself.

My lungs may be weakened

by smoke,

my legs sore from use,

womanhood having devoured me,

the gold at my feet long

gone,

I can still manage

I think

but maybe not.

Discovery.

A fire burns

and in the scorching heat

I feel the skin

of my face

tighten

and crack

and a smile

becomes a painful

crumble

like marble

under the forceful blow

of harsh steel.

Books and

books and

books

sit beside me

all in their order,

in their rows,

but their words

are only

inaudible

whispers

which I gaze upon

in a wide eyed stupor

of absent thought.

Time is lost in this place

where the crackling

of the flames

drown out all that

surrounds

and I slowly lose my mind

to each crack

and pop.

A beast I become

in a lady’s dress

howling at the moon

and forgetting

the nature of the words

which line my shelves.

The fire consumes

and swallows the room,

me along with it,

and I burst into what

I truly am.

Chaos

swims with

tranquility

as the mindless monster,

the barbaric creature,

escapes from the smoke.

For Philip.

Yesterday, you lay on a bathroom floor as the sun rose over New York. Arms gone purple and sprawled on the cool tile, veins too full to push the blood now thick and cold and littered with mud. With eyes left open, your mouth hung cracked as if to speak but nothing remained. Your lips dried out. Approaching footsteps would determine your true life. Your story.

Today, your name on a moving train as the sun rises over London. Printed loudly across millions of slung and discarded papers which line the seats. Your face reflects in the blackened windows as in the eyes of strangers. Pages boast of scripts and statues. And as your children weep, the audience turns the page.

Primrose.

The sun sets

behind the skyline

and my eyelids droop

along with it.

The grass

reflects

orange rays and

shining violets

that jerk me

awake.

Only minutes from home

after

a day of

wondering

yet here

I sit

atop a hill in the

fading light

of day

to enter night

along

with my city.

We will watch

together

as the moon begins

to rise and

return

to ourĀ sunken

state of

slumber.

While Piccadilly

may rage,

Primrose rests.

The haunted streets

are only host

to those ghouls

who lurk

with eyes closed

to their graves.

Goodnight.

Bus. For Allen Ginsberg.

The bump-ity bump of the bus blurred my vision but

still I sang.

As the words jumped

and London sped by

in jerks

and halts

and dings,

my mouth began to move

unconscious of the page.

My hand waved,

my fist clenched,

un-clenched,

fingers wagged,

as if my body were being

possessed by the man himself

who wrote these sacred words

which fill my head now.

My glasses fog up

as the frigid winter air

swoops in to allow

passengers’ escape.

My warm breath

creating steam

which only drives me forward.

My passion grows

along with my volume

and my intoxication.

I read

and wave

and clench

and sing.

I finish the poem

and must take a breath

to relocate my body.

There is clapping,

but I look out at the

blackened streets

and signal

my departure.

I take my final

bow

into the London

night.