Your father, a poet,
Is published.
You are certain
We haven't heard of him.
Your soft clear face,
Brushed with hair,
Crinkles in concentration,
Searches for trees.
Rumpled in boy's sheets,
Belly pressed towards sleep,
A hair wave trundles down
Neck and shoulders.
Flannel pajamas form
You and winter scenes
Of snowmen and skaters
Tickle your pale flanks.
The machine kicks in after four
Rings, pressing pleas of
Happiness onto erasable tape.
You screen every call.
You are pressured by the phone.
The vinyl bench in the Blue Metroline
Train presses your intense desire
For freedom into my back.
I sit and write a letter,
From my suburban room, forming words
that tell why I could miss
The last Metro home.
Your father, a poet,
Is published.
You are certain
We haven't heard of him.
Your soft clear face,
Brushed with hair,
Crinkles in concentration,
Searches for trees.
Rumpled in boy's sheets,
Belly pressed towards sleep,
A hair wave trundles down
Neck and shoulders.
Flannel pajamas form
You and winter scenes
Of snowmen and skaters
Tickle your pale flanks.
The machine kicks in after four
Rings, pressing pleas of
Happiness onto erasable tape.
You screen every call.
You are pressured by the phone.
The vinyl bench in the Blue Metroline
Train presses your intense desire
For freedom into my back.
I sit and write a letter,
From my suburban room, forming words
that tell why I could miss
The last Metro home.
The prude can excites me
With her steady repression --
The imagined red nipple
Held firm in underwire,
Nestled in starched sturdy fabric,
Runs electric.
The heart of the matter.
I see myself an obvious man
of illicit intent, my raunchy brow
Dotted sheen sweat,
an admittance
Of phallic degeneration.
Thighs interest me more than
The lips for they support,
Hug, press, sometimes undulate
Underneath while the lips
Only consume and then render
Useless pulp.
The prude can excites me
With her steady repression --
The imagined red nipple
Held firm in underwire,
Nestled in starched sturdy fabric,
Runs electric.
The heart of the matter.
I see myself an obvious man
of illicit intent, my raunchy brow
Dotted sheen sweat,
an admittance
Of phallic degeneration.
Thighs interest me more than
The lips for they support,
Hug, press, sometimes undulate
Underneath while the lips
Only consume and then render
Useless pulp.
You simmer before the page,
Ruminate about a tree,
In November, on a cold bench,
And ratchet a pen
Between your fingers.
Words crunch through
The gravel at your feet and dapple
Upon the page in cursive,
Evoking the spires of trees.
At your desk, pressed against
A clammy pane of glass, a mirror,
You strain to perceive differently
But words retreat; the page is still
Clean in your room at midnight;
But you need to write down
Your crashing thoughts,
And then comes day
And the Muse neither visits your pen
Nor your paper.
You simmer before the page,
Ruminate about a tree,
In November, on a cold bench,
And ratchet a pen
Between your fingers.
Words crunch through
The gravel at your feet and dapple
Upon the page in cursive,
Evoking the spires of trees.
At your desk, pressed against
A clammy pane of glass, a mirror,
You strain to perceive differently
But words retreat; the page is still
Clean in your room at midnight;
But you need to write down
Your crashing thoughts,
And then comes day
And the Muse neither visits your pen
Nor your paper.
she wears a green cardigan over a cotton shirt, tucked into heavy jeans. she wears tan leather work shoes. chunky tomboy urban wear. she has always dressed like this, even when in the office. soft translucent skin, moist and white. hints of blush in the cheeks. rough denim and soft skin. golden hair and golden wires holding her glasses on. he is bigger than she. he is wider and much taller. bearded. ruddy. heavy. with curious eyes that look at her, then the train.
he moves slowly, carefully for his mass is dangerous to others if unchecked. unchecked movement, even friendly claps, may throw another against a wall. They sit so that their knees touch. not from love but from comfort. because they have known each other for so long and can speak or move with ease. because they are friends. he scratches his beard and runs a hand through his hair. its to his shoulders uncut and dark brown. black jeans. steel toed boot, scuffed and brown.
©1997 Chris Abraham ]]>she wears a green cardigan over a cotton shirt, tucked into heavy jeans. she wears tan leather work shoes. chunky tomboy urban wear. she has always dressed like this, even when in the office. soft translucent skin, moist and white. hints of blush in the cheeks. rough denim and soft skin. golden hair and golden wires holding her glasses on. he is bigger than she. he is wider and much taller. bearded. ruddy. heavy. with curious eyes that look at her, then the train.
he moves slowly, carefully for his mass is dangerous to others if unchecked. unchecked movement, even friendly claps, may throw another against a wall. They sit so that their knees touch. not from love but from comfort. because they have known each other for so long and can speak or move with ease. because they are friends. he scratches his beard and runs a hand through his hair. its to his shoulders uncut and dark brown. black jeans. steel toed boot, scuffed and brown.
©1997 Chris Abraham ]]>sitting before the screen later, i will smell the dank air, see the sprung third rail. wait until the lamps at my feet flash in unison.
i notice her glasses. gold wire rimmed spectacles with a medium prescription. at the end of her powerful nose. blue eyes hidden behind. and she is sad often these days. sad for days before. like me, never having gotten over college.
still sipping coffee from a big plastic mug from au bon pain. steamy java in the grad class. professor winston napier. african american literary theory. sitting, fingering the xerox baraka, the xerox bam, the thick copies of out of print afrotext and the buzz buzz buzz of the blues men, the jazz funk earthy cool, sitting with the big boys, the intelligencia, the ebony tower. sitting there sipping a 40 of french roast and watching the leaves fall outside.
©1997 Chris Abraham ]]>sitting before the screen later, i will smell the dank air, see the sprung third rail. wait until the lamps at my feet flash in unison.
i notice her glasses. gold wire rimmed spectacles with a medium prescription. at the end of her powerful nose. blue eyes hidden behind. and she is sad often these days. sad for days before. like me, never having gotten over college.
still sipping coffee from a big plastic mug from au bon pain. steamy java in the grad class. professor winston napier. african american literary theory. sitting, fingering the xerox baraka, the xerox bam, the thick copies of out of print afrotext and the buzz buzz buzz of the blues men, the jazz funk earthy cool, sitting with the big boys, the intelligencia, the ebony tower. sitting there sipping a 40 of french roast and watching the leaves fall outside.
©1997 Chris Abraham ]]>
The sky took the morning. Birds tore small holes in the quiet. The air remained cool, but not for long. It still kept us under the covers. Her breathing remained slow and rhythmic.
I, awake for nearly an hour, didn't know how to get out of bed without waking her. We had been awake together only three hours ago, here. We were new lovers. I did not dare to move as I didn't know her sleep as well as I knew others'. I knew I would doze again, but I hadn't the patience to wait.
The red block LED of the digital clock burned into my eyes. My stare slowed time. The morning failed to wax and I laid there for hours waiting for her to stir, not wanting myself to be the cause.
©1997 Chris Abraham ]]>The sky took the morning. Birds tore small holes in the quiet. The air remained cool, but not for long. It still kept us under the covers. Her breathing remained slow and rhythmic.
I, awake for nearly an hour, didn't know how to get out of bed without waking her. We had been awake together only three hours ago, here. We were new lovers. I did not dare to move as I didn't know her sleep as well as I knew others'. I knew I would doze again, but I hadn't the patience to wait.
The red block LED of the digital clock burned into my eyes. My stare slowed time. The morning failed to wax and I laid there for hours waiting for her to stir, not wanting myself to be the cause.
Reading from Norton's
That poem you've been
Saving for me under a
Yellow tab. It simmers
While the leaves are shut
And the energy mainlines
Through you until you
Have to ground it in me.
The chattering verse
Slips to the right then up
and catty-corner to where
We were before. Your
Eyes tick up to me to judge
My reaction -- but this song
Moves too rapidly to become
Distracted by others and,
Like a pianist on new music,
Some notes need to be replayed --
The rhythm reëstablished.
Reading from Norton's
That poem you've been
Saving for me under a
Yellow tab. It simmers
While the leaves are shut
And the energy mainlines
Through you until you
Have to ground it in me.
The chattering verse
Slips to the right then up
and catty-corner to where
We were before. Your
Eyes tick up to me to judge
My reaction -- but this song
Moves too rapidly to become
Distracted by others and,
Like a pianist on new music,
Some notes need to be replayed --
The rhythm reëstablished.
Light like the heater I kept turning off and
You kept switching on. I pulled at your arm
Interlocked with mine.
You moved in that loose limbed way
Like unformed bones.
What is this thing the English
Have for tea? The teapot steeping, the thimble
Cups staining like teeth. From all this tea,
From all this coffee, from all these cigarettes,
There's no wonder why teeth here remind me
Of little gold pips.
Light like the heater I kept turning off and
You kept switching on. I pulled at your arm
Interlocked with mine.
You moved in that loose limbed way
Like unformed bones.
What is this thing the English
Have for tea? The teapot steeping, the thimble
Cups staining like teeth. From all this tea,
From all this coffee, from all these cigarettes,
There's no wonder why teeth here remind me
Of little gold pips.