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this box of stills : losing my watch
(photo by kwesi abbensetts)
the moments i get high from breathing sun dust and thick clouds
the sun's position is crowning
the opening is 7 centimeters dilated
and i've left my watch at home for a good reason
time is construct
nothing real about it
there is no minute ago
and everything that happens when this poem ends can be stacked on top of everything written before this poem became a thought
time is a concept
there is a still of me bending my knees
beneath a still of me shining
this has happened before
there's a moment that proves it beneath all this
just moments
the movements of the crowning sun
and the dilation of the beautiful opening
moments i can relive repeatedly
i just gotta throw away my watch
brooklyn aint no planet : for that girl on pluto
(photo by kwesi abbensetts)
brooklyn ain't no planet
but if you stand on a rooftop where nostrand and lafayette kiss you can connect dots you never knew were there
call them constellations if you want
on a sound night you can see to the bronx and see real constellations made in steel doors if that door was never replaced
and this aint no real girl
she sleeps on pluto on my pillow on rocks so she's never comfortable
she's destined to be my demise
my left leg's clot that i really got from a great great
i've gotten as far as 1812 but still no tribe
you look like you got something to tell me
you smell like you have something to give me
something you wore that skirt for
something you didn't press your hair for
naturally you say something about me not being ready
but i've forgotten how to ride bikes
they've lied or my memory is fucked up beyond repair
and that flat tire you showed up with means we should stay in and be counterrevolutionary
remove that dress fake girl
remove that other shoulder
keep on those boots
avoid those rocks and find comfort on this mattress
this aint new york
this is brooklyn
this is that brooklyn poem i promised to always write you
just from 93 million miles away
hers. not mine.
(photo by kwesi abbensetts)
she left the remains on the kitchen table beside the too thick cream of wheat hoping someone would throw it all away
who'd throw it away but her
these were her dreams
your own troubles have to be poured by you
this was benny jones she loved
the poet who said all the right things at just the right times
we can give our futures righteous names like:
god
truth
allah
wise
grow them from the umbilical
then i step in and cut them lose
but i want no responsibility for what's left on the table
i'll eat in my room until you remove it
i'll make cream of wheat at the other girl's house
she buys pills regularly
she takes pills because she loves the sound of a quiet bed every so often
and when that gets to be too much she calls me over
she sends texts about missing me
and i write back:
i miss you too
benny's dead and the poetry will stop until that table is clean
until that bowl soaks in water and dawn
until you place no blame on me
