“How’s your scrapbook?” someone asks at a reading.
“Fine!” I chirp up,
Pretty soon a circle gathers
By the time I get home
Late at night
Imagine burning one’s scrapbook.
My expensive scrapbook.
– for & after Tommy Swerdlow
How long can you wait
for the time to be right?
How long can you hide
in a silk mask of dreams
while the ticking tide of nightfall
bleeds the days out of your veins?
How long?
Street corners press your feet
and the women hurry by
evening cracks its knuckles
and you know you are alone.
How long?
The women swim around you
trailing several smells
and you wonder
if the brunet in spikeheels
knows the only question
or even the address
of a solid mental breakdown
as you walk in the neck of a cosmic disease.
You’re dizzy with the power
of this moving female mass:
actresses & secretaries
Cinderella’s sisters
streetful working girls
Athena on the rise
linguistics’ oldest teachers
and girls named for the moon.
Or those longthighed pinklipped schoolgirls
we hunt for absolution
going home to daddy
or a slice of cathode pie.
How long can you wait for her
to break through your looking mind
in a salient spark of flesh,
thrown down by lariat eyes
with a single twist around
your stumbled boyhood horns.
You hoped that she could change you –
but she’s late she is not coming
and now the street is empty
except for Van Gogh’s cab.
(One door is missing
and the driver’s always storming
about crowbars in the cornbelt.)
How long?
Until you waken sweating
with those dreams that fleck your skin?
Like the hot dried sweat of woman
and the tide of truth she holds,
this smell that nerves out something
from your Viennese valise,
some taste
remote & long forgotten
with a root deep in your past,
like the Hassidic revisionism
crashing in your skull.
But what you will become
can never be the things you were.
How long?
Til you see
that the only thing she’s hidden
is the orbit of her smile
in a breeze that drinks the leaves
of one morning’s gentlest tree.
And that’s how long.
© 2002 Hakim - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: use without profit allowed only with author’s express written permission. Please don't wake up my attorney. Please.
Strange as it sounds, I really believed I knew something about the human heart, as if a few romantic comeuppances... together with a taste for opera, sufficed to give me Stendhalian credentials. – James Merrill
Is it not
strange?
We stumble
through life, each thinking
mine the lone tragedy,
this pain like none other,
none ever felt quite this way before....
thinking her heart alone
the human heart.
How young the young ...
and my own romantic comeuppances.
A girl who loved me more than
anything,
but could not cross the space
to become the woman who knew how to love
the animal I was:
In her leaving
she took that terrible absence with her
trading another absence in its place.
"...si che non trouvo attia – ma non che trasu."
Or another girl, this one
torn from the light
and I put her in the ground,
her family staring: a pale young man
broken on
a casket covered with roses
and roses
and my life blanketed by
the petals of her memory,
her touch,
the whispers
crushed by our own confusion
and her lust for speed.
"...e una commedia, lo so,
ma questa angoscia eterna pare!"
My second wife I
ran over with the old green pickup,
her ragged screams drowned in
the engine's high whine
back and forth
the wheels crushing her fine ribcage
again
and again
– but
only in my fever dreams
tossing east to west
alone
night after night
after night.
"...al alba vincera."
My younger life so operatic…
characters arranged exactly,
their exits
their entrances timed with careful
precision
to the phrasing of this or that aria
I chose to sing.
"...mi destino in la palma de mi mano
la gitana lo leyo."
But
would a wife of mine ever ride
to the funeral with my mistress
holding in their laps
between them
my severed head?
© 2011 Hakim - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: use without profit allowed only with author’s express written permission. Please don't wake up my attorney. Please.
© 2006 Hakim - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: use without profit allowed only with author’s express written permission. Please don't wake up my attorney. Please.
© 2011 Hakim - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: use without profit allowed only with author’s express written permission. Please don't wake up my attorney. Please.
Those of us for whom the most extravagant promises have become a reality, are, I think, required to seek appropriate expression of their gratitude.
~ Sol Linowitz, American Ambassador
Life does not demand more strength than we possess.
Only one thing is possible: not to have run away.
~ Dag Hammerskjold
We may not find things to our likin’ – but we’re gonna dang sure find somethin’ we ain’t seen today.
~ Hakim's Granddad