technicolor

January 25, 2011

technicolor

hospital white, blinding fluorescent lights:

you can’t see the dusky boardwalk outside,

it’s too bright in here.

they wash out the acrylic t-shirt designs

hanging on the far wall, the shelves

with glass globes of smiling sapphire dolphins diving,

the shiny silver plastic toy guns with fire-orange triggers.

everything drowned out, overwhelmed

by the rushing tide of stark, shallow white.

a string of flowers in my hand, all chemical,

a fabricated, fabric lei.

burn copper, you get the emerald;

sulfur gives you the acid blue.

but not here.

here, it’s all

sparking magnesium white.

beyond

January 22, 2011

beyond

our dirty black honda

makes its way down rockwell street

in alexandria bay,

searching.

which one of these

cookie-cutter houses

do they live in,

my dad’s friends? 

we find it,

an old, washed-out,

robin’s egg blue

with peeling paint,

just like the rest. 

on foot down market street,

the dog is yanking the leash,

snuffling this and that,

as we pass a million

gift shops hawking

the kinds of delicate

things you buy

and then leave on your dresser

for ages, just gathering dust,

even though for now

they’re all on display, safe

in tiny glass cases.

we turn onto fuller street.

the sun glints

off the metal garbage cans

along the side of the road,

and we hurry to the beach

before it sets.

with the same puppy-dog precision

as the gray schnauzer we’re walking,

we sniff out the best spot

on the coarse, littered sand

in order to watch

the conceptualized, euclidian

sun as it melts

into the saint lawrence river

behind the shabby sailboats

all trapped in the rotting harbor.

oh, but now,

for the briefest moment,

a pure, fugitive fire ignites

the autumn leaves

of each of the thousand islands. 

and even from our trite,

mainland shore,

you can catch just the smallest glimpse

of the castles.

connor's guitar

January 13, 2011

connor’s guitar

we’re sitting on the couch, casual, until

            he glances over, a small smile playing on his mouth.

he picks me up gently, makes my six strings

            yawn and stretch into their comfortable E, B, G, D, A, E. 

a soft strum; a shiver runs down my neck;

            I hum along. 

his right hand keeps rhythm as his left moves

            and moves and moves into a strident D major,

the dominant A, and then my favorite,

            the warm, leading C#, thrumming through me.

he deviates, and his fingers pick up speed;

            a quick pentatonic scale.

the last low note lingers; he takes his thumb, traces

down the subtle inlays on the side of my slender neck,

past the frets he knows so well, across

each one of my ribs, until he holds the entire

curvature of my hollow body; I feel as though

I could fall asleep here, in his arms. 

pomegranate seeds

December 24, 2010

pomegranate seeds

there are days

that go by

like stepping stones,

when the sunsets

are all chemically engineered,

when we don’t know

our heartbeats

from the rest,

and we listen

to these tired thoughts.

but then comes the first snowfall.

we no longer need

these forced smiles,

the icicles

are seventh chords

hanging from rooftops,

we exhale

and our breaths echo back,

and our ghosts are all chased away

until the sky is dark and clear

with crystal constellations.

may love always be winter for you.

Alalia syllabaris

December 15, 2010

won 2nd place in 2011 Sokol High School Literary Awards

Alalia syllabaris

I am

thick-lipped,

tongue-tied,

the words in my mouth

glass marbles that I

cannot spit out. 

If only these ideas

could articulate themselves,

clipped and clean and clear

like harpsichord staccato,

clockwork clicking,

or horses’ hooves

on cobblestone.

My language

would be as precise

as the lunar curves

of an eclipse,

lovelier than ice sculptures

carved and shaped

into masterpieces.

But my phrases slur,

like rain stammering, stammering

on roofs, streets, oceans,

making meaningless messes

of my simple thoughts.

Try as I might to master

the slick, quick turnarounds,

the sharp resolve of each word,

my sentences inevitably become

myopic, impressionist,

finger-painted interpretations

of the sentiments

I cannot communicate.