De uitdragerij

Ik word door vele vreemde handen uitgeplozen.
Van alle kanten komen ze. Mijn berg aan schatten
staat hen voor ogen met hun grote, lege kratten.
Dat wat ze nemen wordt naar willekeur gekozen.

Men schreeuwt en graait en paradeert met mijn trofeeën:
Kostuums, blazoenen, archaïsmen, kandelaren.
“Je kunt hier best wel zonder, joh!” – het werk van jaren.
Ik word verlost onder de felste barensweeën.

In weerwil van mijn uitgespreide armen wordt
Mijn stapel alsmaar kleiner. Men grijpt en graait en port
En gooit baldadig met gewezen grote luister.

Niet eens de grond onder mijn voeten staat nog vast.
Ik zie een diepte gapen waar de stapel was
en tuimel achterover in het stille duister.

A Poem I Can’t Remember Writing

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Of a thousand dreams before, I thought, they were
only remnants of desires—latent in tree stumps, street corners,
pigeon roos over my roof, white sheen of canvas openings into
the blue sky—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀All of my maniacal memories burst like shotgun
pomegranate bleeding synapses flesh—broken matter between
my brain halves—amyloid proteins popping—stowed from vision
consciousness—impressionist gaps between Brooklyn Heights
and Today—

Read more…

Poem

It melts losing its form,
Turning into a sculpture.
I can hear it no more,
For it sways within a furry forest,
Buried in wax,
A muffled sound escapes.

Stretch marks on a prowl,
A low growl peeks through veins,
Eyes lined with red see her.

The lines break outside roots,
Slithering down foamy wax,
Down my scales and stripes.

I listen,
A lick, a flicker, a slither, a growl.
Against negative spaces,
Between hair, forest, scars,
Is a sound, a cry,
So silent.

In between my scales,
She sings, she speaks, growling and screaming,
Buried.
Under-wax, between scales-
Threatening to tip them over,
And drown the red line in her waters.

– A woman’s meditation

Images

I looked around and saw all the
Windows and trees and hairdos
Brick, recemented, old, different
Heights and browns and entrances,
Rusty bikes; the Mediterranean grocery
The organic butcher, Turkish Barbers,
reaching corners, drinking tea in hourglasses
In front—and knew
That all of it would not reach the other end
of this poem.
The cold stairs were mine, the days,
the years, the cats on the window sills.
It didn’t matter.
Tom Waits was no Radio DJ in this world either.
So what the hell.

August 2019