Hemingway at the 231st St. Station

Posted on November 21, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

when she’s gone for days, I read Hemingway
and write her compact texts in his style,
until I meet her, later, at the station,
arms full of nothing
in preparation for her slender frame.

when she’s gone for weeks, I read Bukowski
and become increasingly lecherous and erratic,
cringing at every evidence of promiscuity,
calling bets and bluffs, equally
reckless and indiscreet.

when she’s gone for months, it’s undeniable;
I’m dense but not delusional.
I drive towards Martinsville with Kerouac
and wonder when a new destination
will replace the 231st St. Station,
and who else will be worth waiting for?

fragile things (Humpty Dumpty redux)

Posted on November 3, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

To be fair, the horses never stood a chance.
Chide the novice journalist for his frivolous poetic turn, and
focus instead on the men, learned, presumably, qualified
to succeed at this the most seemingly crucial
of reconstruction projects.

Convene again the learned minds, and begin the root cause analysis
(an expansive list of scapegoats and red herrings), and point
to causes vaguely while reciting the most cloying monologue
from your favorite romantic comedy. But strike through

fragility is an unacceptable excuse, because
nothing not fragile is worth writing rhymes about;
nothing not fragile is worth fixing.

Point less-vaguely towards complacency. After
years of chewing gum and duct tape repairs,
their wrenches had rusted in tool sheds,
and so Humpty died, a victim of gravity
and oxidation.

And clearly, he was out of place. Eggs and
ledges do not combine. There was likely signage
pictorially representing what we scoff at, never
fear, until we, vivacious, oblivious, enliven
those crude, black on yellow icons.

Chide the novice poet for moralizing, but

there is nothing you can say
to the invincible collective, prior, and now
it would be crass, so stay quiet and lament
that the most fragile among us don’t keep to lower ledges
even after we fall victim to failure, inevitable
and universal as children’s rhymes.

from the water tower to the long pier

Posted on October 25, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

the water tower looms, and i approach,
small steps then longer strides. why,
percussive, why? no answers now – not
with why-drums beating rapid rhythms,
not with humid air and heavy legs and
the horizon tacked in place, refusing
to near.

except
i will lie, later, in a quiet bed and hear
why-not-drums beating rapid rhythms
if i slow; the well-rested will not rest well
knowing what strength remained
in their untried legs.

the long pier looms, and i approach, undaunted,
reminded now that all shores are traversable
with will and well-fitting sneakers.

there is no other way home for me from anywhere
but from the water tower
to the long pier.

with honey

Posted on October 13, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

my god is a benevolent god, but I am not
a benevolent man; to decry this as a contradiction
is too simple for a sophisticated world;

every warrior wields a weapon, and the chief
assigns one loose cannon to each interrogation, else
who trusts the information the good cop gleans –

he stretches his legs, when he must, to preserve
his reputation; those avatars of justice stand
away-enough from unflattering light, so citizens

continue to admire the luster of brass buckles
and silver commendations in soft, warm tones;
we others wash our calloused hands and fail

to recall lover’s contours beneath our fingertips –
and do not ask how it felt – we have filled these voids
with zeal, righteousness, uncompromising politics;

these off-the-shelf components keep us close-enough
to human while we listen to the powerful pander, or inspire
fear in something higher/equal to themselves, so they

build a pyre in their honor and call for converts,
knowing: one lures fewer flies with vinegar
than with honey, but fire attracts anything, draws

the basest to most cognitive creatures towards
the promise of warmth; or, if the ranks fail to file, gently
remind the sluggish citizenry that anything will burn.

what must Icarus have felt as he fell?

Posted on October 9, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

Only fear,
only and always fear,
but triumph, also,
and pity,
always pity for himself, who dared,
and pity for others, who do not dare,
who fall for decades
at constant altitudes,
who do not crash,
but dissipate gradually into surrounding air.

Icarus felt anger towards those who do not dare,
the inverse of survivor’s guilt.
“My talents are wasted in Hell – all milling for eternity
and low ceilings,”
whereas:
“they are wasted on Earth
dripping wax on the bare backs of their lovers
and building nothing.”

But any feeling not fear was fear in disguise.
He felt only and always fear
at the most reliable and universal prophecy
fulfilled, finally,
of dying
broken and alone.

error in grammar

Posted on October 5, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

my word processor posits that there might be some
grammatical error (the audacity of machines so willing to offend
my fragile artist ego), but I know, “I fucking hate country music,”
is accurate in every sense a sentence can be accurate.

I am not angry; these impossibly many Booleans were only
attempting to perfect my journal entry, and besides, cold, anodized
aluminum suggesting as replacement, “I fuck; I am fucking;
I was fucking,” is poetry of a different kind.

said Socrates

Posted on October 2, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

“You can’t approach everything ironically,” whispered Socrates
into his chalice. “‘Some problems are solemn as poison,’
said Socrates,” said Plato. “You must reason and rationalize,
reign in destructive appetites-”
“We disagree,” say Guns N’ Roses
and every Batman villain.

“Consider:
the path to enlightenment curled through Manhattan,
terminated in Hiroshima, Nagasaki; now x’s mark
the dead-eyed stick approximation of the reasonable human.

Empirical evidence suggests ‘insanity’ is our one,
only viable option,” said the Joker to the thief,
air quotes to mock society still swimming upstream.
“Don’t blame Plato,” he said, “he couldn’t have foreseen.
He’d say Socrates said very different things if they were alive today,
don’t you think?” Socrates nodded to his hemlock, building
his resolve. Plato observed, considered:

“we are all so eager to die
for our principles, or not, and for our convictions,
so eager to kill, or not. It could require
a lifetime of dedication to abstract concepts
to make any useful sense of the human condition.”
Batman, rarely articulate: “we must dedicate our lives to something.”
“Of course,” agree his nemeses.

“We must question,”
“We must quell the men who question,”
“We must continue in their tradition,”
“We must concede

comforting thoughts are crutches propping crippled philosophers upright;
their discarding brings us closer, only, to our sea and soil progenitor,”

said Socrates.
said Athens.
said Plato.
said the nemeses.

you, incarnate fire

Posted on October 1, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

the last pages of our notepads are reserved for secret words
requiring ciphers, mirrors, the alignment of celestial bodies to read
on sacred days.

I only write when our bodies are misaligned.
you. transient you.
I only write when our bodies are first aligned
and orbits are uncertain.
nothing, for so long, has influenced this motion
until you, incarnate fire
stretching ellipses.

the last pages of our notepads are filled with inkblots, horoscopes,
so we sift through equal parts mystery and nonsense
for meaning.
the lucky numbers are somewhere’s lottery, after all,
the outlook for Libra is sometimes spot on.
today’s reads, in cryptic prose,

“gravity took hold and has not let go any day you’ve known,
but maybe tomorrow
it will.”

our quiets

Posted on September 27, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

there is nothing I can tell you about my quiet
that will be about your quiet,
only the most generic statements concerning
(but not limited to)
ticking clocks, heavy eyelids, humming
electronics with dull-glowing blue
and yellow hues.

these are the already-knowns of our quiets,
Venn circles forming the tiniest gibbous moons, while
we are rendered primitive, blinded
by the other’s unfathomable, barely-eclipsed sun.

tell me something secret about your quiet: something
that on rarest, perfect nights escapes to light
heavy eyes with bright-glowing blue
and yellow hues, and I will nod;
my face will crinkle with the effort of empathy, understanding
the fundamentals of radiation, understanding
while warmth transcends distance,
even from nearest celestial bodies,
impossibly tumultuous fire
appears serene, and silent.

left and leaving

Posted on September 24, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

she broke down, crying, and pleaded, “don’t leave me,”
but i had no intention of leaving her, never felt closer
to anyone than in that one explosion of a moment,
vodka-soaked and ignited by mutual insecurity.

later, she left me, and i pleaded plenty: arguments
stumbling and sprawling in an unconvincing tangle.
i blame her, sometimes, but at my most rational,
i remember that i never felt secure;

“to live afraid of loss is to prepare to lose,” i could
recite every morning to the ceiling, but still mollify
and coddle and stumble. to my credit, i did not hedge
bets; i was invested like the chicken and committed

like the pig to breakfast to the vision of a grander
future. i never felt closer to anyone than to her
in that prolonged explosion of a moment, and i never
felt closer to loss screamed every frenetic instinct,

and now my pleas for proximity rebound off cold cavern
walls and sound so familiar, i imagine. “don’t leave me,”
taunts not-her voice, and i won’t, Love. “where are you?”
echoes everywhere, so i will wait here.

embarrassing dynamism

Posted on September 22, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

i cannot provide the mayoral welcome of career politicians, and
i do not possess the instincts of suave, British spies, so
i will settle for embarrassing dynamism, because static dignity
has failed; all my accumulated class can be redeemed
for no prizes at the arcade ticket kiosk,

but always you can find someone to admire
your perpetual motion, and please teach them further defiance
of thermodynamics, frictional physics.

no more quarters wasted building towards slap bracelets,
ring pops; though tempting, i stake no claim
to these beautiful adornments of station;
i am a barren barron beneath these trappings, thus
i forego them, hoping

amidst an increasing selection of near-random stumbling,
some motion will eventually appear practiced
and purposeful.

cholesterol

Posted on September 17, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

You look like an advertisement for cholesterol medication:
businesswoman on a grassy knoll,
bare feet kicking carelessly,
white shirt remains pristine
somehow – how?

On second thought,
don’t ruin your pill-pushing mystique
by deconstructing the mundane.
I’d rather stain remover were magical
than calibrated chemicals.

Fair enough,
but every woman’s mystique remains
unadulterated white, and still my cholesterol climbs
despite daily, delicate handfuls
of unmarked pills.

Paul Simon

Posted on September 14, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

I don’t think enough of us realize
that Paul Simon will be dead someday and gone,
leaving us alone,
in a world without Paul Simon.

Driving home tonight, I was struck with all the force
of a gentle voice made strong by song.
Serenaded by Paul Simon, singing about his son
and stars.
It hit harder than most that this man will be dead, someday.
Sure, we’ll have him on CD
and in a myriad of compressed audio formats, but still,
this is different than Hendrix,
born to die, or Dylan,
who since his twenties has been a wraith
stalking, haunting his musical niche.

I will die, maybe tomorrow, without fanfare,
not one trumpet.
Silent angels will transport me nowhere
in bare hands,
one on each shoulder,
a soothing and proprietary gesture, still
I’d rather it be them than no one.
We’ll wear our 3D glasses,
microwave ethereal popcorn and wait for the sun to supernova.
Afterwards, we will file out of the theatre,
disappointed and ten dollars poorer,
share our feelings and marvel at what it’s like
never to have existed.

Light speed travel! is all that will save us,
some of us,
preserve Napoleon as a caricature and Caesar as a salad.
God must be nervous, or uneasy, at least,
appreciating the need for oxygen deprived minds
to keep him alive and breathing our spare change
and time.
I keep expecting things to change with time;
“guided by tiny strings” sounds so archaic
I think we will all, someday realize,
but maybe not.
Maybe Jesus and Moses will spend every afternoon of the afterlife
laughing and periodically jeering in my direction,
twenty feet this or that way,
reclining under a tree with the prophet Mohammed
(an unlikely but inevitable Heavenly clique)
reading a book and enjoying the breeze,
never happier to be wrong,
happy to still be anything.

Or maybe light speed travel! is all that will save us,
some of us;
preserve Napoleon in a cylinder and Caesar in a plastic bag,

and then sing, Paul, to the Romans
about your son, Carrie Fisher,
and the only losses that matter.
Those pagans don’t believe in monogamous love,
and I don’t understand the trinity
(can you believe it? – all my life a Catholic).
I feel like the Holy Ghost is underrepresented
like Zeppo in Marx Brothers’ comedies.
Explain this, Paul,
using simple words and complex harmonies.
The choir sings about lambs and saviors;
I don’t understand this either.
Is anything not metaphor?

this is a poem i wrote just now about a spider

Posted on September 13, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

if i wasn’t preoccupied with this goddamn spider
then i probably could have written –
ok, listen, there’s a goddamn spider living
on the tank of the toilet next to the rarely-used
Remington razor, and i can’t walk into or
out of the bathroom without contemplating
the mechanics of the life of this tiny creature –
you try walking into a confined room inhabited
by the most reliably static spider and try –
don’t think about the color red – same idea.

this spider is my closest friend, and i hate him
for his constancy and for his doting mute greeting
and his implied, “how was your day? mine was i’m
a goddamn spider who doesn’t move, so i guess
you have the near-accurate mental picture, and
good luck writing later not about a spider, and
good luck in all your large-world endeavors, and
i love you – don’t say anything – i know its mutual,
else you would have crushed me under day-old
newspaper, the old Remington razor case; just
good luck is all.”

goddamn it. not the spider, sorry. goddamn
preoccupation, the concept, social media, reality
television, reality, television, menial labor, a pox
on every trivial thing except thank you to coffee,
to secluded benches in quiet parks where i can think
for one fucking second about any trivial thing until
my mind wanders to the women i’ve walked this park with –
oh, well. it was something for a moment, quiet
and small, not unlike this eight legged creature,
not unlike my best friend, this spider.

unnamed

Posted on September 7, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

Last night, dreamt
of a plainclothes cop in an unmarked car
who drove by
revealing nothing of himself or of his nature –
not a whisper of sirens
nor a wisp of justice.

I breathed relief,
sat straighter,
exited to consciousness.

Later, no doubt, sirens blared
Heralding the Coming of the Law
to a fearful no one,
panic-stricken,
stammering apologies to himself in opaque glasses.

Or no one slept
restfully, or fitfully,
and he drove by
revealing nothing.

distinction

Posted on August 31, 2012 by cohesivenarrative

Yeah, life’s not bad.
In my twenty-something years, I’ve watched enough television to know that it could be worse.
Nobody aces them all – except for maybe the Asians,
and nobody is lucky in love – except for that one friend
and his girlfriend,
which, by the way, is cute but infuriating.
And I haven’t in years thought that I’m the happiest man on the planet;
don’t knock being delusional until you’ve tried it, because believe me,
those were the days.
But what really worries me is that surrounded by this sedate, albeit optimistic, mediocrity
I won’t know a great thing when I stumble, humming, into one
like the tired guy who wakes up from his history textbook pillow
and mistakes his desk lamp for the sun
“morning already?”
the clock reads 1:30
confusion
realization
“oh”
his roommate laughs.

You see here on the bright side it’s difficult to distinguish between a dull glow and brilliance;
the world has been whitewashed.
All of your favorite corner cafés,
cute and quaint and littered with 60’s paraphernalia,
are now Starbucks,
and the coffee is still great, but every time you set foot on that
corporate tile floor
you can’t help but think that something is missing,
and you spend the rest of the night possessed by that vaguely uncomfortable feeling.

I fear that I will neglect the importance of atmosphere.
I fear that I will cross the boundary between contentment and complacency.
But what I really fear is that I’ve done these things and didn’t care –
couldn’t muster the energy.
That at one point I gazed upon my future, squinting
with my hand across my brow, shielding, for maximum visibility,
checklist in hand
with clearly marked options and perfect square boxes next to each of them.
The first: celestial fire;
the second: lamplight.
I fear that, shrugging, I checked the third:
other,
left the description line blank,
drew my profession from a hat,
chose location by lottery
and selected one girl, at random, to marry
at a mutually convenient venue and time.
“Does it get any better than this?” I asked.
I turned left, starting walking,
continued to ponder my power of distinction
and wondered,
along the same vein, knowing it was dusk,
if I was headed south.

Evening Dusk

by A. S. James

Category Archives: Poetry