Poetry

Nameless & the Klondike Princess in North Pelham

Jump, jump — the girl got them freckles and them shining eyes,
But I gotsta hide — her dad be wacky wild,
Swinging that bat Dirty Harry style.

She’s my P, little Klondi P — doesn’t know it yet – but Yah-keh,
bringin’ sweethearts, candies to her door,
doin’ it in the night like MC Stealth Dawg.

So I hustle, gotta boogie, gonna make her smile,
leave the note, little hearts — will she be, mine?
Leave the note, nameless, ‘cuz the fear inside —

got jacked, got chased, ‘cuz my skin ain’t white.

The Conversation

In a dimly lit restaurant nestled in the cobbled alleys of Zürich’s Niederdorf, ten of the world’s most eminent (and eccentrically over-dressed) mathematicians gathered around a table buckling under the weight of antipasti and wild gesticulation. Archimedes, having insisted on entering the premises wrapped only in a

Dare

Dare I dream of roses, a night sky passing proud, Orion and all his friends standing, in heaven’s dark blue, not loud— Like children we remember, the home from where we were, the rocket then we boarded— steel forged and smoothed our nerve. The first kiss, the awkward bumble,

Now to Our Own

We start with feet riding on a rubber floor, a moving carriage, scuffed by thousands of shoes, our reflections caught for a second in the glass. A middle-aged man stares at us, then sinks again as the train descends into the central tunnel; brushed steel and huddled shoulders carry

Nun zu den Unseren

Wir fahren, die Füsse auf dem Gummiboden, den tausend Schuhe blank und stumpf zugleich gerieben, im fahrenden Wagen, wo für einen Augenblick unsre Spiegelbilder an den Scheiben blieben. Ein Mann mittleren Alters sieht uns an, dann sinkt sein Blick zurück ins Ungewisse, während der Zug hinab in die Tunnel fährt;

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The Conversation

Dare

Now to Our Own

Nun zu den Unseren