Asia’s Rain

My face was warm as I sat and thought
About the money, and the money, and the money.
My feet were as cold as a slice of January wind.
And somehow I just sat there
Feeling everything within my warm face
And cold feet,
Wondering if you were coming to find me,
Or coming to despise me,
While I thought about the money.
I wondered if you would ever come
Or call.
My cheeks felt like a hand slap,
My freezing feet.
I kept looking through the dingy glass
To see if you were following
Or up ahead,
Wondering if you were far behind,
If you were cold or warm,
If you thought about the money.
I sat and despised my sitting.
I thought and despised my thinking.
And the money–How I despised the money.

Is that sound my voice
which calls a seed to sprout
and flower
from the ashen ground?
Are those my tears
scattered round?
Remind me
were they tears of joy
or tears of pain?
Will anyone ever hear
my voice again?
My heart beats
in my fingertips
in my skin–
Is it a sin
to touch the flower?
to coax it with
a Master’s voice?
Does the flower have a choice?
My heart reaches out
to pluck it
from an ugly place.
And tendrils of the root
refuse to rise.
They grip the soil
hard and black–
I cannot put
the flower back–
But wasn’t it my voice
my tears?
Whose ground is this?
Did he ever call it a garden?
Or simply a place
to spit out seeds?

one bare bone stands planted
on a pile of rubble
it signifies no tomorrow
it points the way
at an awkward angle
to the city of sorrow
it shakes in the dust
as the bricks are cleared away
to make room for the rubble
of another day

one bare bone
stripped clean by starving rats
planted high on the stack
of a razed synagogue
is the ghetto standard
the warsaw flag
of an entire nation under-fed
their feet bled
on broken glass
with yellow patches on their backs
they listen to the distant
shaking of a railroad track
an approaching cattle car
which in its rhythm seems to say
i am the way . . .

. . . i am the way
to the city obscured
by the cleanest smoke
where the people choke
on the bones
of starving rats
while mozart’s operas fill the air
and everyone
and no one
seems to care
that time is out of sync
that time is out of sync
and mozart’s operas fill the air
and starving rats
and piles of bricks
and pointing bones are everywhere

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Comments: I wrote this in college, as it says, after reading Shulamith Hareven’s story “Twilight.” I had also been doing some research on the Holocaust and came across a book called “The Pictorial History of the Holocaust.” Obviously the images were very disturbing. I also had a very vivid dream one night (shortly before reading these books and writing this poem) of being in a concentration camp. I have some gold crowns on my teeth and in my dream the Nazi guards were pulling the gold teeth out of my mouth.
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The fumes of flesh and blood and sleep
Eke from the stained bed
Where the victim, dead
Of the little death,
Lies naked in a swirl of sweat.

You will never forget
Your first time.
Her mother’s voice
You think you have a choice;
As well you might choose
To live forever.

But do not believe, my dear,
In fairy tales.
Believe in fear
And hate and lust and carnal sin.
There, my love, is where love begins.

It springs from the loins of all virginity.
It comes, it comes, it comes with its felicity
Only through the tearing of the flesh.

Lie down; lie up.
Time for the wolf to sup.
Betray yourself by taking of his sop.
He will not stop.

This is the ritual of the flesh.
This is the fearful, dreamed of sex.
The procreative lie
Is only the bastard child of this rite.

Sleep, sweet child; close your eyes.
Sleep, sweet child, lullabies.
Angels guard your resting sleep.
Pray the Lord your soul to keep.

Blue rain on Monday
freezes before evening
and you slide through
the rest of the week.

Friday night finds you
under a blue neon sign
melting ice-cubes in scotch
in a downtown bar
where the whores
never leave you alone.

One slides your scotch-chilled hand
along her wet thigh
The weather, she sighs
Take me tonight.
I hate being alone
in the rain.

At the third monthly project meeting
We all congratulated each other
At our efficiency and speed
In delivering a competitive advantage
With such a high return on investment
If bonuses were pinned to this alone
We should all be happy at the year’s end
Notes were duly taken
On the presentation decks provided
Each member of the team was given
An assignment or something to report
To their superior
The hour spent, we adjourned
To other projects, other duties
Only a week later did we recall
How pale and quiet Tamara Watts
Had been throughout the meeting
And someone spread the news
That a spot of blood had been found
On the seat of the chair
She occupied that day

Our work-from-home technician was distracted
During our conference call today
A child’s muffled cry
Seeped through a closed door or two
Around the table there were stifled sighs
And much brushing of hair from foreheads
Someone mumbled how hot it was
And everyone silently agreed
A shuffling of feet
Signaled the meeting was almost done
I glanced out the window
Surprised at the fury of the summer storm
Then made my way back to my cube
Past the door to the room
Where I think I can sometimes hear
The subdued hum
Of the breast milk pumps

Words endure while man decays with age
That is, ars longa, vita brevis.
Before you die, turn another page.

Cry to eternity in your rage
Rage on, cry miserere nobis!
Cries endure, while man decays with age.

Death is something you cannot gauge;
It begins ab incunanbulis
Before you die, turn another page.

Though written upon one single page,
Each utterance is de profundis.
Death endures, while man decays with age.

This is a poem whose words are sage;
Verity lives totidem verbis.
Before you die, turn another page.

Your body is just a mortal cage
Whose key is the phrase: hic sepultus.
Words endure, while man decays with age;
Before you die, turn another page.

Rough like leather
Boots that rub
Dirty pans
You have to scrub
Rough like sand
Sahara hot
Rough you want
Its rough she’s got

Scrape her nails
Right down your back
Like a rusty
Railroad track
Twist your skin
And bite your ear
Push you to the
Edge of fear

Rough like junk
Out in the yard
Rough like sleep
From which you’re jarred
Rough like stubble
On your face
Scraped across
A smoother place

Tie you down with
Hemp-cord rope
Knots that leave you
Little hope
Stranded there
For days on end
Watch her leaving
With some friend

Rough is sleep
That never starts
Rough is dreams
Of broken hearts
Rough is what
You thought was love
Rough the cry
Of cooing dove