POLL / Preliminary Results

I had asked for a favor: I've been thinking about submitting some of my poems to Slate Magazine Online, and I needed help to pick 5. Now here are the contenders for "Round 1":

Leaves (August 12, 2004)
Comfortably Numb (August 3, 2004)
Piece of Damascus (April 15, 2003)
Iodine (March 19, 2003)
Absence Materialized (January 4, 2003)

The runner-ups are:

3 votes:
I Write (October 10, 2003)

2 votes:
Exit (August 6, 2004)
Life (July 18, 2004)
Ghosts (June 22, 2004)
Remnant of You (February 21, 2004)

1 vote:
Puki Says (August 11, 2004)
Sunset (August 1, 2004)
Grief (July 14, 2004)
Antequerra (July 9, 2004)
Tomorrow (October 10, 2003)
Vomit (October 2, 2003)
Life on a Beautiful Day (April 16, 2003)
Pieta (April 15, 2003)
Holes (April 15, 2003)
Pieces of Me (April 10, 2003)
Breathing Corpse (April 4, 2003)
The Memory of Me (January 22, 2003)

I'll keep you posted on what becomes of "Round 1". Again, if you do not agree, there might be more rounds; so VOTE! Any suggestions would help. Older poems are filed by month under "Archives" to the right. Also, if you have any editing suggestions/comments, please do not hesitate to post them/let me know; I do take them into consideration. And many thanks in advance!

Red Light District

A scent wafts by
Humid and warm
Late on a Sunday dusk
Congealing with the certainty
Of things past.
A childhood, a grandmotherly bosom
And the naïve belief in unconditional love;
You shoo them like flies
And walk on, cutting the space
In front of you like wads of butter
That quickly heal and fill in your void.
The brick tilts its head sideways
And musters some pity for you
Reluctantly, fearing its waste.
A cat spreads its thighs
On a window sill
In a domesticated Philadelphian retort
To the Red Light District.
A black iron gate,
Genuine boredom,
Lives muted
Behind fake-candlelit windowpanes.
And I fear to repeat myself:
the same words, same nausea,
same silence, and the same
warm humid scent wafting by…

The Scream

Like the whereabouts of a heartache
Like a childhood gone by
Like a chinchilla gone missing
Like the silences of the oud
that night
Like a windblown smile
that has faded too young
Like the taste of your hunger
Like the rest of the race
Like your face ablaze
with a familiar song
Like the crackling on the radio
before it all went out
Like a lingering smell in the bedroom
where no one remains
Like the hairs on the back of your hand
when you calm my hair
Like your laughter ringing on
between walls of trees
Like the frame hanging empty
on an emptier wall
Like the shreds of a canvas
in the shadows forgot
On a sidewalk, by a hydrant
waiting to be stolen

Mothers

We make new mothers
As we grow older
So when our mother dies
We can pretend we're still living.

Another

What's another brick in the wall?
What's another word on the page?
What's another story gone sour?
What's another bad poem?

What if it's all over?
What if they become strangers again?
Who gives a damn?

Leaves

I scatter myself
That you might find me
Over the edges I smear me
Thin and grey
I search for you
But you have fallen
Like leaves
Incessantly
So brittle and crisp

You collect at my feet
And I drown in you
But you have fallen
Away from me
Away from yourself
Away from the tree

Nothing remains
But words splattered
In a pink book
Stashed over the porn
Faded pictures
And paler recollections
And friendships turned
Frigid and bland

I live with it
Try to embrace it
But it takes practice
To embrace nothing

Puki Says

To Wojtek

He said, I am glad you found your inner voice
But does it have to be so loud?
He said, I am a waste of flesh
He said, Will it be okay?
And I said nothing;
I just stared.

For five years now I've said nothing;
I've just stared.
And he's still there
Saying nothing
And that said it loudest of all.