Thursday, February 28, 2013

Pittsburgh 9

So this is how
the two worlds
come together

the subversion of jazz
Thursdays at cjs in the strip

men with skin burnt
different colours play
the keyboard
the drums and the trumpet
the saxophone, the clarinet
and the confusing double bass
looked up on internet later

make music together

like the smile
some dreams leave
on happy mornings
to defeat the demons.

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Pittsburgh 8

And then you wake up
one morning, feeling free
not uncertain, not timid
anymore, just happy that
you tried and failed

nothing matters anymore
the words don’t sting when
they say you are too involved
it is just a warning after all

one set of folks force loud
cheerfulness on the streets
and inside the Dollar Store
the other draw invisible boundaries
talking about everything that matters,

new landscaping in the
old houses and extension of the
front porches, the menace of squirrels
and deer, to leave you with nothing

the writer tells you in a crowded bar
he doesn’t watch films on insanity anymore
you want him to stop
that's a story you are familiar with
and not from him

the evening is dense with birds
you make your way to the place
where you live; you switch the lights
on and reach out to the melancholy
set it to boil in a kettle and drink it
with tea

you will be home soon
and this day too shall be a memory.

Sunday, February 3, 2013

Pittsburgh 7

My friend on Facebook reassures
the groundhog has given signs that
it will be an early spring to melt the snow
and bring back afternoon walks to the cultural district

this yearning for sun churned by superstition
only reinforces what I already know from reading
the weather forecast of February, and March too
but that does not impede the good cheer

arising from the unquenchable thirst
to touch wood whenever something works out
or the sudden drawing back when a plump
black cat ran across Arch Street, crying in distress

I want to tell him that it’s good to know
we unite in our common longings and also fears
about the residues the cold nights leave behind
besides the backyard shorn of its pristine whiteness

like an angle who lost the battle.