Smoke
I am so close I can taste the smoke
it’s deep inside because you are so
sad you wrote a poem that can’t be
translated into English precisely
it’s only two sentences long you say
the conceit (my word not yours) depends
on the similarity in the appearance between
the characters for “can’t talk” and “sigh”
you’re not addicted to cigarettes no
the attraction of smoking is not nicotine
it’s the process of exhalation the letting go
the act of expelling what can’t be spoken
your poem’s not about mutual betrayals
or the yearning that drives you to fuck me
without a condom while whispering trust me
it’s not about the transmission of sorrow
or viruses in dangerous times love isn’t
enough though you boast you’re mine
at a jazz concert the quintet’s on fire
you’re left cold but happy I’m happy
Kenny’s caught the Trane you can’t hear
his sax’s swinging squealing climbing higher
bawling squeaking screeching a human scream
he’s rocking in prayer and you’re smoke.
Scheherazade
I don’t panic when death sits next to me
when she glances in my direction
with blind blank eyes.
Her father scalped me
a ticket to a sold out performance.
Yo Yo Ma and Silk Road Ensemble sit on Persian Rugs
which he had loaned to the New York Philharmonic.
She’s dressed in black
her argyle sweater’s a bit garish
wears a neckerchief tied to the top
of what remains of her head.
The skin where her face should be
barely conceals the skull--
skin which had been set on fire
then congealed at body temperature.
I don’t complain when she talks
to her mother during a quiet interlude
try to concentrate on the music
imagine Scheherazade as she sings of Sinbad
composes fantastical tales to save her life.
When death falls asleep during the slow movement and snores
I don’t hesitate--slip out of the hall, sprint to the subway
sit next to a man reeking of alcohol
singing out of tune throwing bottles.
I am grateful
for his odor and his aria
for smashing glass and screeching brakes.
