Bubjan 

Bubjan 

My grandmother asks my grandfather for a dollar
when she plays the lottery, claiming he’s a better person 
than she is and therefore it’s more likely that God 
will give it to him.  She will use the money to buy 
one apartment for me (which she volunteers to watch) 
and another for my twin brother (if he learns manners). 
For my artistic cousin with the long legs and perfect 
nose- the only in the family- she will pay for the production 
of his first film, and for the only girl among the grandchildren,
she will pay for medical school and a pair of sapphire earrings. 
For the other three grandsons, she'll cover graduate school 
(PhDs only). She will give every cleaning lady 
or construction worker who comes to the house 
along with every doctor or dentist she sees 
more chocolate and bigger gift cards than she does now. 
Every homeless person and beggar will get a $50 dollar bill 
from her instead of the regular $5. This tells you something 
about my grandmother and everything about my grandfather. 

Magic 

Magic 

There was a time before we met
when you had to
forget, forget, forget. 
But now, as the oak 
and the cypress are to September,
I want you
remember, remember, remember. 

Grandfathers

Grandfathers

Yours flew a plane, mine planted trees
 they hoped their grandsons- 
wherever they would be-
 would seek out lands and skies in need; 
They see themselves
 inside you and me.

Our grandfathers are noble men
 they are noble now
and they were noble then, 
 and perhaps they’ll be born again;
We see ourselves
 when we look at them.


 

Honey

Honey

There will be a world 
without us in it
and a quiet house
with undisturbed sheets
and clean floors
holding a hungry dog,
but love, for now, the world
is full, there is music in every
room of the home, the floors
are piled high with our clothes
and there is a fat dog 
rolling somewhere underneath them. 

A History Lesson to Myself on Space Travel 

A History Lesson to Myself on Space Travel 

If you want the stars, you can't be distracted 
by fireflies. You have to be willing to build a rocket ship 
out of pretzel sticks and throw it together by reading a tedious manual
written in Latin. You have to get it wrong until wrong is the only thing 
you know and the only thing it feels like. You have to be okay knowing
you may still have it wrong after all that, but find enough solace in the certainty that you are true and the only thing that matters is that you are being true 
to the mad genius in you that baffles all the bastards of the universe. 
A star is a star during the day too, and at night when you aren’t looking,
and when you are sleeping and eating and forgetting what you were meant 
to be, the star still does not forget. So what if it explodes in the end into emptiness (emptiness is not nothing) forever? It was still a star once, 
and for billions of years it was being true, and it shook its dust to make other galaxies. When is the last time you have shaken the dust? Can you read Latin 
or make anything other than an awful smacking noise with pretzel sticks? 
Stop blaming your star for being too hot. It’s not too hot, it’s too hard and too far for your comfort so you traded your dreams for entertainment 
because your monkey mind prefers a jar of bugs to conquering a cosmos.