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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where Does Anger Come From

Someone whispers- this isn’t yours.  You aren’t his favorite.

She said her kids have normal noses

And hence she should bear more children

into this already overpopulated world with an apparent overabundance

of children with noses that aren’t normal

I listened to her and couldn’t help but look at her wart

Someone in here already wrote about warts

Turns out I am not only unoriginal but am also bitter

Slay my little trite memories

Dues must be paid

I must not be such a quitter

Tick tock tock tick

A better response would have been –

Who do I fuck around here to make more children with normal noses

Without arrogance and poses suggesting attitude

without warts and judgement

with hearts that beat to the rhythm of kindness

More so than time that carries all this bitterness

tick tock tock tick

One moment please – I already have two.

Screw your charmless little comments

In the moment that was yours.  But this poem is mine.

And it is finished.

 

Amusements

you know that feeling that you stop enjoying

as soon as you hit a certain point

of aging,

let us remain optimistic (for as long as we can!)

and say – growing!

The poignancy just like the devil that hides in details,

Hereafter lies in the fact that

Regardless of what you call it

You age and you hit that point.

Whether it triumphs at Twenty-Five, or Forty

Largely depends on your blood pressure and over-all outlook –

(The stillness of your half -empty-glass against the jiggle in glasses of others)

The point as I know it is –

The-initial-slow climb of the rollercoaster, previously known as the anticipation of adrenaline

(What is it about hands in the air that inexcusably signals youth?)

Becomes focused tension of a solitary question,

Why the fuck am I here?

I have hit that point a while back

Climbing towards the initial drop-decline

With a similarly crude question in my mind –

Am I too old for what you offer?