The East Village

Paolo Javier

October Snap


Yellows leave fall on the sidewalk, so the storeclerk sweeps.
Yellow leaves tumble past my weeds. My landlord emerges yellow

in a gold Camry. Down a camera creek of Mercurys a sleek
Continental glides. Content in a rental, with a panda on his back 

a man passes. He makes a pass, pauses, the sun in his mouth. He has
hurt teeth. Off-yellow, fall. Trees leave. The storeclerk weeps.


The Writing on the Wall

'There are no words.'

That's my camisole I wear for sleeping.

Would you like to see your present now, or

later? I don't want to be another story, you

know? You mean you won't wanna hang out before

you go? You're a real prince!


'I miss you, but I
am trying
not to.' Not our miscue

or toes that winter,
our slippers
in the shower.