The Green Light

The Green Light

By eight, I smiled that smile, the one
resigned to living the most boring night.
Tonight, it would take place. An epitome
of inanity, the new high in lows.
The food was good, and the drinks, well,
drinks are drinks. But all topics are not
topics. Some, more nauseous than those
preceding, make you shiver, and sweat.

As I was doing, on both counts, until,
from three seats closer to escape, a dispute.
About, of all things, the green light in Gatsby.
Can this be real? Intrigued, I turned.
Both of us, disgusted with everything
walked toward a terrace, and on the way
my one thought was, She cannot possibly
look like that, in that skirt.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Tabula Rasa

Tabula Rasa

There is no such thing, unless
you actually are a chalkboard.
Even then, two options emerge.
Recently erased, or never written upon.
No one is a clean slate.

If you are reading this, too late.
If you have ever seen lightning
however distant -- wrinkled your brow
before, or even after, the thunder.
Too late. Toolatetoolate.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

What You Gave

What You Gave

One of my gifts to you was macaroni.
I withheld it, as those busy hands
unwrapping the inferior things, tore.
The bracelet you set to the side, and
how it swallowed the candlelight.

The Hotel New Hampshire beside it.
The button-up sweater, the very one
you thought did not exist --
how it kept your other treasures warm
as I reached, and the flame wobbled.

Handing you that rattly rectangle,
the eyes I saw seared my soul.
You were five kittens, and the laugh
that killed the candle between us
I would swim oceans to hear, forever.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Bookmark

Bookmark

The malls, subway tunnels, airports.
All have those curtained booths.
People giggling huddle.
Climbing into the frame, snap, snap.
Tongues out, eyes crossed, snap.
Snap.

So I buy a used book, and you were alone.
Reading Fitzgerald in the park, I noticed.
The strip of photos, it’s just you.
Placed there, in page 123.
No laughter or tomfoolery.
Witchcraft.

Unnoticed, when I paid the $2.99.
But there you are, four times.
A strip of you, smiling, with this book.
Another four shots, in the other hand.
You did this twice.
Why?

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

My Universe

My Universe

It exists for me.
It exists without me.
Key words, for and without.

Let’s start with for.
Was it before me, the universe?
Yes.

Moving on, how about without.
Does it need me?
No.

Maybe we should re-direct.
Focus on the word “my”.
What does that mean?

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Famous Girl

Famous Girl

Guess what. I am famous.
I once used to breathe that sort of air,
the kind you do.
With all kinds of oxygen in it.

It is difficult to remember a day
that was mine. But I have people
that remind me of it.
Almost like having my own calendar.

Tonight I was ushered from a hotel
and fell flat inside, fearing. Will I ever
meet someone like him, again?
Things once left
for nobility to worry about.

Boy in the lobby, leave me.
Please, I am someone different, now.
[Hide me Bigg, from that camera
goddam it, it’s what I pay you to do…]
as many click, and flash –

I am crammed in a car and driven.
Scared of my own image, told, told,
told, told, told, told, TOLD.
But you asked me several things.
You asked me.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

That Branch

That Branch

It was the inauguration of you, perhaps.
Your address to me, so unplanned -- Stealthily
I followed you into that bracken, for kindling.
You thought me the other direction, and soon
I feared my voyeurism would be discovered.

As I was about to deliberately step on a branch
you bent for one. A sacredness descended,
not unlike the second that ticks before the fawn
bounds. Seeing this piece too green, “Fuck”
you said, firing it against a moss-covered rock.

I turned, that branch spinning in slow motion.
Before it landed, I was already back at camp,
stoking my own twigs gathered on the way. You
brushing the forest from your sweater, and me
knowing. This was a fire God could not put out.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009