movies and such

                                       i

walking back and forth in front of the door

isn’t the same as opening it and saying – here I am

The hint of light-life from your half-open window

talking about you endlessly  breathless

isn’t the same as being silent with you breathless

i am starting to run out of floor-room-airspace

While talking about you i pace-pace-pace

this is where white space says a lot less than i need

it to say.

 

ii

drinking cheap margaritas that leave

the type of aftertaste that you try to

untaste for days isn’t the same as drinking

Coke and Whiskey while watching Skyfall

I already know that you won’t be there when I fall

Because I fell, albeit not from the sky,

the fall wasn’t nearly that long or dramatic

God knows, rather, all ears in my vicinity know,

Our affliction aka effort for our interaction to be

Or not to be – cinematic

Enough humor. I am as serious as the clock.

I didn’t invite you into my anxiety for you to mock me.

Retourne back to Skyfall, Daniel Craig and Whiskey

Not for long,  just long enough to nod in agreement

That Skyfall also happens to be Adele’s best song.

at the very least, until Hello,

Hello. Its me.

I am at your door again.

Cut.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Laughter on a Mountain Top. Part 1

Uproar of laugher

On a mountain top

Is prosaic in its pomposity

I am glued to the cage with a dog inside

I do not like anything caged

 

The dog compresses himself

Against his side of the fence

It tries to find my hand or my face

I try to reach his fur through the cage

I can’t

 

The laughter continues in gurgles of glee

Not sure what they are mocking

My ‘middle school’ empathy

At almost forty, I admit, is riotous

And yet I think they are rotten.

 

Laugher by now has grown from roar

to something bombastic

Part of me hopes that in their spastics

Some of them fall from this mountain.

While the dog and I remain enraged.

Each in our own way.

 

I turn to the owners of so-called resort

“When do you let it out?”

Fighting back tears,

Imminent hysterics.

“When do you let him out?”

 

Barely upright from laughter

Fighting back their own tears

Frenzied in their pleasure of friends and this escape

So far away from home

“Please don’t let this beast out until we are on our way out

and he can be out alone”

 

One of the owners of this resort

Rubs my shoulders in a manner

That I imagine only a close relative would

I can’t reconcile her borderless warmth

Her host’s embrace and her kind face

With this dog and his lot.

She asks me if I liked dinner

and assures me that the dog is here

Strictly to protect the resort and safety of all guests.

And, yes, of course they love him very much.

 

(For a moment I wonder if some of the laughter

Is to conceal the shame for my post dinner manners)

I never thanked anyone for the view, the food or the company of this crew

Who are, yes, still, laughing.

And again, they ask the owners to postpone the answer

As to when and if they let the dog out of his cage.

Until we are gone.

 

 

Anger aside, I have to join them. Dinner is over

And so is this vacation.

I look at the “beast” again.

He is sliding down the cage with his entire back against

The part of the enclosure that is closest to me

By now it is dark on the mountain

So I can only see his shape and hear his barely audible wailing

And that is it for our interaction.

 

My laughing companions

Escort me to the car

The dog trades his quiet howling for thunderous barking

It echoes through the mountain

And suddenly the idea that he will keep sitting here

in six by four cage

as I drive down with an open window

is too much to bear

I slide down my seat and convulse from hopelessness and fear.

 

Suddenly the laugher ceases.

And in its place comes uncomfortable silence-

Followed by

Why do you always ruin everything?

 

Wasabi

I recognize you in the face of the much-younger-than-you waiter
In the way he wears his glasses, smiles and holds his gaze on me
Longer than is appropriate in our stare-at-your-phone-screen-with-ease- look-away-at-the-mere-sight-of-anything-resembling-emotion culture
I place my hand on my son’s head, palm disappearing-drowning in his curls,
Warmth along every meridian doesn’t stop at the boundaries of me
it spills onto you, well, not you, the look-alike you
And I keep running my hand through my son’s hair
Hoping that it makes looking for you in someone else’s face easier to bear and even alright somehow.
Your look-alike smiles wider, his eyes betraying a tingling
mix of curiosity and possibility of a game neither one of us is prepared to play.
It is getting increasingly hard glancing at the menu, looking at you and keeping my son by my side
I think to myself that all of it is unfair (something I think pretty much every Friday)
and then I ask “you “for some tea.
Green, if you have it.

Slut

You said that you wanted more poetry

Between your request and this instance

The muse has been replaced

Twice.  

Menacing thought to be a woman

Of Balzac age and remain a floozy

Though some pages turned 

Some left unturned oozing restlessness 

Little effort it took to break your oath

Another intertextual proof – you are such a mess

But I love you.

Don’t waste your love on me

Collection of experiences is my leitmotif 

There is no space for a You in recurrence.

Sunset

On the balcony below me

A boy of three

swiftly followed by his

half-naked, presumably, father

who grabs him

instinct so powerful that

I cannot control my tears.

my husband is always repulsed

by emotion and open exhibit of any-thing

reminiscent of weakness

i tell myself that

he is just ashamed that

himself, he, is unable to feel

partially due to cultural upbringing

and other part due to

being desensitized by life with me

i click through my memories as though they are

Facebook pages of people i barely know

Flamingo-pink Florida sky

offset by industrially heavy realization

People we think we know best

are more often than not –

people we barely know.

 

The most beautiful boy in my old high school

went unnoticed by me

as does everyone without

forced complexity

masochistic search for trouble

whateveritmaybeaslongasnotthetruth

-my parents don’t have time for me

-they love my brother more than me

-why does he/she has more than me

whateveritmaybe

 

Wide shoulders and thick peasant thighs

Are now a joke with my on and off friends

Jokes aside, being an adult

is inability to unknow

You are only a brute in my mind

Just as you know that i cry on cue

what few memories we could click through

are tainted

and no amount of pink in this sky

Can undo this damage

You told me that you don’t hate Jews

using your crush on Natalie Portman

as your excuse

I told you that I only want to hold on to your upper arm

to hide from myself

And this is as far as we will ever take it.

I hide my face in your arm.

You flex your muscle and pretend you are

much stronger then you are

for me

one last time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cumberbitch

Ask me (Again!) about Benedict Cumberbatch

Didn’t you see something he was in at least four times

Was it Hamilton

You stupid something

He is in Hamlet

Not in Hamilton

But out-loud I wonder if you want to drive down to New York City

 

We could get dolled up oh-so-pretty

(At least that’s what the externally single men on dates will think

When they look us up and down in the foyer)

We will see it live

It is only four hours and a couple of hundred bucks away

And singsongy mood and the brief feeling of immortality are all ours

 

We could see Hamlet or Hamilton you ask

And before I can scream back

You interject that Cumberbatch looks like a horse

I think that you do also

 

instead of lyricism

It’s true what they say

its only a half step from love to hate

Didn’t even realize that we were in fact

Walking in any direction

apparently half of a step is sufficient

movement for two

to change from usual convoluted

but nevertheless very obvious

me and you

to what is obvious to me

alone

you have grown more reserved

than your semi alien-

“how angry do you get when I don’t respond on the scale from one to ten?”

tired of my stories that matter to no one really not even me if I am really being honest

Come on. Really? How many times can one begin a story with – I wish I was-would-be- someone- somewhere-else

i sometimes wonder if I type-talk too much only to interrupt hard-to-argue-silence of my thoughts

but only sometimes

the rest of the time

I am too busy typing-driving-making-baking-faking- taking

breaking-breaking- breaking

 

To escape the silence

you left

after you left

me.