Bonnie "Prince" Billy, Columbus Circle, Feb. 7 2013

Ok, so it's been a minute. Here's a new one.


through the gauzy carapace,
framed & broken,
hanging over Columbus,
the passing tails
of taxis, taxis, taxis.
the flash of siren, reflected
above the circle,
the constant flicker of candle light,
three per table,
shimmering smaller circles,
and always the shooting stars, below;
in the middle distance, streetlights.
and further,
still smaller points of yellow,
each apartment randomized
on the horizon,
their tenants unaware of the watchers above.
and watching all of us,
the gold and green orbs,
the triangles of light,
the striking red--
crosshatched, bisecting lines,
everything overlaid.
and the secret space, in a town
that cherishes its secrets,
those hidden spaces over everything.

he sang.
above the cars, above the streets, above the trees
littering the park, below.
above the diners across the mall,
who may
or mayn’t
be admiring
the private wonder
of their own secret space.
he sang.
and behind him, suspended,
reflected, he sang again,
and again, further still,
close enough to almost touch Columbus
just barely, on the plaza,
he sang at last.

the constant rain of lights,
the gauzy specter of a city
returned to, soon enough,
and so much grander,
remembering,
we’d never left.

One poem, two versions

I wrote this poem in response to a call for poems about "firsts." Then my computer keyboard died and I had to take it to the Geek Squad, and they kept it for three weeks. This poem was the only one I'd written but not saved online. So I wrote a second version. Here they are, ver. 1 and ver. 2. Tomorrow I'll edit both and see what happens.


Ver. One

We were on our way

to Cooperstown.

I sat in the back,

sulking. More baseball.

But up the road,

through the rolling green,

on the left--

the car slowed

and Dad pulled over

to look at antiques.

I remember wood,

gray with age.

Farm equipment.

And an old man--

Tall, suspenders,

gray with ruddy cheeks.

Whispering to my brother,

"Nick, look, it's Santa!"

And we followed him through the maze

of rusted gray, our stage whispers increasingly loud,

and when he noticed, finally,

he knelt down and held his arms out,

and asked us what we'd like

for Christmas.

You can't wrap a bicycle,

not once it's outside the box, anyway.

So imagine:

lying awake for hours,

hoping to catch his entry,

but eventually we're asleep

and up at first light

we sneak downstairs

and there, under the tree, the paper,

hung loosely over what can only be

two bicycles. And when we finally wake

our parents, and the coffee's made

and the green light given,

we tear the paper off

and stand back to admire a minute

the black and red frame,

the number plate in front,

just like a proper BMX,

only with our ages,

my 6 and Nick's 5,

and that was more

than proof enough.

Ver. 2

The rolling green

of the north west Catskills,

from the smudged window

of a speeding caravan,

bound for Cooperstown,

for Baseball again.

But on the left,

we pull off the road,

a pause for antiques,

to fill out Father's vision

of Country Living,

the scattered lawn, full

of farm detritus—rusted wheels

and iron rooster weather vanes.

We chase each other

through an accidental maze,

until we see him:

Gray hair, pot belly.

Red Suspenders,

a full beard.

Our almost whispers

not quiet enough,

he comes to us,

kneeling and asks,

“So what would you like,

for Christmas this year?”

That Christmas eve,

we stayed up as late as we could,

hoping to catch him in the act,

and when we awoke those few hours later,

snuck downstairs where the tree

was half covered with presents,

and at the front,

the two largest shapes,

draped with sheets and sheets

of wrapping paper,

but unmistakable all the same.

We ran upstairs, to wake the parents,

and dragging them, bleary

from their warm cocoon,

tore off the paper

of our new bikes,

shiny BMXs, with number plates,

5 for Nick and 6 for me,

and that

was proof enough.

Our House

I woke up late this morning, my head pounding with the infection that so often takes up residence in my sinuses, despite the surgery, compounded probably by the exposed nerves of my second molar, top right (the root canal is on Friday; I've given up a chance to road trip through the south west to LA to do the responsible thing and fix my tooth).

I drank coffee at the coffee drinking table, and ate a bowl of flax and amaranth corn flakes, sweetened with Agave nectar, because I used to be punk rock, but now I shop at Whole Foods and Fairway, and take Fish Oil supplements, in spite of my lack of steady income.

The siren call of which I fight every day. Health insurance that isn't Cobra. Money to spare every week. Money to save, if I can figure out a way not to spend it all on toys from Apple, on accessories for my Weber Smokey Mountain, on hydraulic fluid electricity generating bicycle trainers, on new motorcycles.

I read in the New Yorker that a social gathering once a month brought an increase in happiness equivalent to doubling your salary. I would love to believe that, deep deep deep within me.

I would not have this time at my desk, surrounded by books and pictures and two computers and cats and music and long leisurely mornings writing and drinking coffee and watching tv, and running errands if it comes to it. I wouldn't have my writing group.

I wouldn't have the fear of where the next job is coming from and will I make my rent and keep my health insurance.

But I spit poetry and prose, when I write, I do. Less so when I'm working, granted--then I wake up and I do my ablutions and work and come home and read and sleep and watch television on the internet.

But when I'm off...

I said I wouldn't explain my poems, but this is my poem. All of it.


Our House

When we grow up

there will be a place for us.

Wooded--not quite suburban

but near enough (for jobs, and such).

Birds through morning quiet,

rain on skylights. Dark coffee.

A clearing with a house,

and outbuildings.

And stepping onto the porch

in my long johns,

and boots open at the top,

I watch the air cloud at my mouth.

The day begins,

in our place.

But first,

a way to get there.