Flux, the bloodless transfusion of
subway lines, Pascal,
the calculator, a computing machine,
Babbage, IBM and now.
All sprung from the same movement,
the other planets, street corners, civilizations,
our emotions, islands, gone
with this greatest city ever built,
the check and a spill of coffee
In a lifespan of a sun spot,
a gaze, a blink
Sitting in a restaurant on the 23rd and 9th
an echo, a girl I once left behind,
and all the bad rhymes she wrote
Few blocks from the universe,
one point thirty-seven multiplied
by ten to the power of ten
Lincoln’s inaccuracy, the time
with its center everywhere,
circumference nowhere
I lost my birthmark
during sleep, getting lost amidst
the skinny,
suffocating motorcades
You must be five foot nine to ride
Eating week old sun-dried
tomatoes, Japanese dishes
and Swiss chocolate
with my best, white shirt on,
holding your hand, I never
learned the multiplication tables,
five digit numbers shuffle
with ease in my mind
On the set
Humphrey Bogart needed
running water, only drank
in the shower, lights turned off,
alone—without
a smoke, if just for a while
Trying to separate the waves
The first transmission
still audible to our light
The last transmission,
an electromagnetic
interference in
a bilateral, perpetual, polar night
My unsure voice,
the certainty of understanding
Buy a book on poverty and I’ll donate my comissions to Oxfam International:
Poetry isn’t likely to help for poverty. However, if you buy one of these books on poverty (and development) via the links below, I’ll donate my comissions to Oxfam International:
My feeble hand touches the phone
as if it were a woman
The Order is the arm of the Sun!
Platforms have their own,
maps and the traffic, their own
The seas, ships,
frozen compass roses,
the vacuum,
the vastness, all their own
Shoving away the planets, the water
gushes into space, leaving Frutiger,
ice, craters, red sand
Sirocco, Africa and the will to leave
