A Poem, and a Piano

Not much tonight. Just a poem I wrote awhile back (and heavily edited tonight) and a song I wrote and played tonight.

Here's the link to the song. Hope you enjoy it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5wl_Vpzx-tw


Here's the poem. It's actually a true story of one of my many amazing train rides while living in Florence. I wish I was still there. I wish I never left. 

There and Back

The train stops

somewhere between Florence and Venice.

Once alone,

I am joined by a traveler.

An Italian woman,

young and beautiful,

deeply tanned, lithe, alluring, a model?

Perhaps a bit too short.

Tight, small clothes

reveal skin and all curves

as she speaks words I cannot understand.

I stand and step aside,                                     

giving her the window seat.

Diagonally across from me,

a Chinese woman,

all frowns and complaints.

Staring at me, directly across,

the apparent boyfriend of the young Italian woman

smiles, smugly.

Glancing from one to the other,

I wonder

how this man,

his fake orange tan

and tight pink shirt,

his spiked black hair

glistening with gel

and gaudy glasses

nearly as large as his face,

this exact replica of Zoolander—

Ben Stiller the model—

arched plucked and waxed eyebrows,

foolish grin and all—

how does this forged man,

this cardboard caricature,

a replica of a joke,

attract this woman?

Even her voice is seductive,

her laugh intoxicating

as the couple talks beside

and across from me.

Her leg occasionally glides against mine.

She leans near,

drifting asleep,

as I respect personal space

in fear of angering Zoolander,

male model.

He is much larger than me.

We arrive in Venice.

The couple walks off

hand in hand

without me as the wall between them.

Returning,

the train stops

somewhere between Venice and Florence.

I inwardly sigh at my company.

Two men,

attired in leather

and long white cloaks,

both masked by colossal gemmed glasses

and sporting Gucci bags.

Sparkling jewelry,

rings and chains,

earrings and necklaces,

glisten even in the mute light.

I miss the Italian girl.

I even miss Zoolander.

The white-cloaked man sits beside me,

his friend—partner?—

across from him.

They speak foreignly.

I look down to read,

to notice their legs touching,

one’s foot tapping the other’s.

I have no qualms with homosexuality,

yet this train ride confuses me;

it couldn’t be any more foreign.

The man beside me powers his laptop.

Porn fills the monitor:

topless women grinding on stage,

bare-chested men

dancing to rhythms.

Rather classy porn,

if porn can be classy,

and it can—

abstract art and florescent colors,

music blaring through headphones

and painted nude bodies.

He watches the entire train ride,

and I,

trying not to see,

catch occasional glances

of the sex-filled screen.