Digital Hellos
An erroneous message of two equals,
in a future program.
The Internet was given an italicized quote
above a colored text box,
he may have wanted to kill me.
This effluence of wealth,
the sand mound became a birthday party for us,
a laser strobe and French pop music.
One bite of a jalapeno pepper before bed,
obstinate to the clock,
I tricked the man to continue driving,
to repine, and face North,
but, as an adult.
Summer Address
In a hallway, half of dusty mirror and half of tile,
smoke from outside,
a layer of silk, of starch
indoors on a warm Spring day,
splashed by yesterday’s puddle.
I don’t want to be at this party anymore,
where torsos touch.
My eyeglasses slide down my nose,
running through Brooklyn streets at this hour
only to find myself two floors above where summer was spent.
Burano
On a French moon,
the plum stands out,
it is in Venice after all where the pink rose floats in the canal.
I ask, will I allow myself some relief?
A later addition to the canvas, attributed to classic, but not,
the Bride of Bacchus initiates herself and waits for his resurrection,
an altered state with a few brushstrokes of a paintbrush,
darkened, a direct gaze and a thin eyebrow.
I tuck my bed sheet underneath my mattress every morning.
This is a man’s chest, it beats.
Triphylia on Easter Sunday
All of Athens empties out onto one roadway
while the others wait on the seventh hill of Rome.
Eight hours away from childhood,
a firework,
an electronic dance remix I’ve heard during the winter,
and four village bells ringing in the valley.
Children snap from behind dumpsters in the dark
as we shed our damp winter wools,
sip sweet wine,
promising to be pure,
promising to keep a secret for another year.
How I wish to decorate the tomb with white roses and jasmine,
to feel the tears through black fabric,
soak my skin with my doubt
and cross myself by memory
as gold liturgical fans pass me.
Letting go of my grandmother’s hand,
it feels good to hold onto something else tonight,
a daffodil and a vodka soda,
a cigarette between my nightclub fingers,
the accoutrements of youth.
Walking through the crowd,
on top of peanut shells and tradition,
of an unwelcomed feeling,
of being told that he is waiting to be himself,
I too, am that person waiting,
with my own yellowed and decaying palm frond spread before me.
Dirt Coverlets Wrap the Naked Bodies
Hidden from the Orthodox gold, the boys in shorts and tanks.
The curious July heat, a stranger, my nose peeling from an hour in the sun.
I wore philandering gold
under the salt of the Ionian,
beneath the medieval tower,
surrounded by plastic beach toys
when I accepted my loneliness.
Maybe it was the village wine that made me laugh.
Back in Athens, a spliff and a plastic black onyx ring,
hardened like the clay earth my grandparents worked for.
A warm beer on the rooftop, a stolen cigarette on a foot-wide apartment,
I swept the floor,
the color never changed. Greek semen on my belly.
I was lime wash, the low overhang in the Athenian suburb, something meant to stain.
Twice.
In a Tin Box
After a round of rummy,
my name, aloud in your sleep
—a joke.
I tried to get in. Jumped over the dog for what was
left, a postcard on the refrigerator,
orange wine,
a handful of cherries,
gas money for a trip to Kingston.
Engraved in silver
“now’s the time.” That
island bus, bathing trunks
thrown into the water. Tumbled on low.
Mind on the ensellure.
It was your fear not mine
when you touched me. We shared a bed with it.
Wrapped it around our necks,
a promenade to Plato, smooth
polished, unshouldered.
They have a plane to catch tomorrow, move this story along.
An Archway
We made everything up to be this way—
the rolled sleeves, the right fit
—we put these things on,
dressed ourselves up to complement
the lantern lights
reflected on wooden siding,
a calculated perversion.
You don’t know what you look like
below me.
I was cold with a braid thick as a vine,
spilled iced tea in the swimming pool,
spilled on a book you had lent me,
old as anything,
spilled on wild sage
in my mint dot bikini,
tried to find one thing to make me laugh.
Milk
George Washington sat here
by leather books and
portraits of fat forefathers, their thin faced wives,
paintings in pride of place.
What are you going to find?
The man tastes the perfume I just sprayed.
He’ll tell you trumpet players don’t dance.
Let me tell you,
I turn into a folding fan.
Can open a door
with a mug of black coffee to the brim,
good at something.
Everyone was a dressed adult.
Married, spread like butter.