drag the life you never lived
the one you dreamed of as a child
the one you wanted when you heard that song
the one you felt when your head was on her shoulder
place every piece of it you can fit
into the solitary crowded room of your heart
arrange it rearrange it until you’ve made your perfect space
then gently close the door and walk away
never looking back
(For Chris)
I turned off the clock
tears must have their due
not rushed by paltry measure
nor forced by othered rule
grief has always hit me late
gone underground then emerged
it feels the core of me
hidden, silent, generative
sorrow and joy mirrored alike
the very dance of time
two boys walk hand-in-hand to a room
a pigeon on the sidewalk dies
street corner habitues change guard
the coffee kiosk closes its window
minutiae we’ve gathered shut behind the doors of the day
left scattered across our life in untidy clumps
these illusory except for the return
again and again and again
at the end of the day the day comes to an end
streets silenced and cleaned
detritus disappeared
storefronts gated and chained
this hushed new scape ominous
as a post-apocalyptic scene
pigeons and crows gathered
in their respective flocks and murders
to reconnoiter empty sidewalks
and discuss missing garbage bins
humans disregarded altogether
except as a means to an end
the blade turned, the wielder wounded
he blames the knife the edge the angle
the very target that he missed
he’s the only one that brought a weapon
the rest of us brought tools
he doesn’t realize we see he’s bleeding
he doesn’t want any help
once again we wonder
alone in our room or in conversations in cafes
when will they come
no need to ask how will it start
the scrawled graffiti the placards the threats the chants
the message no longer makes distinction
the world remembers terrifying lessons
watches as some of us pays no heed
the weight of history falls as a jackboot to our heart
when all burns and disappears, where will the diaspora land
on the block where the pigeon died
an irregular bloody smear with a few dirty feathers
all that remained of the unnoticed bird
yet people remembered something
and in the way of the street
turned this into a different reliquary
dropped bitter regrets, each burning a different pattern
cried briny tears, each etching it’s own trace
sprinkled secret joys, each sticking like shiny glitter
soon the pavement was transformed
became an altar to chaotic resilience
and for a moment the clickety-clack of the weaving paused
and the weaver smiled a wolfish grin
streets were clean and safe
likewise clubs and even the drugs
rainbows glittered more brightly
enjoy your favorite oldies station
your prints of common museum pieces
your sanitized fantasy past
I’ll inhabit this grimy present moment
touch the hands of those who are also here
dance to whatever music they are making
watch for art wherever I happen to be
drop poems on random sidewalks
It’s a hot boy summer haute boi summer
many are doing a thing have done a thing things are getting done
boys and bois doing them and getting done
xyz is hiring firing laying off have you heard leaving the area
everyone is worried relieved going to the island
light rail is great overcrowded geez down for the morning
did you see the bikes with dykes you know the lesbian ones
do we call the police if we think that guy on the corner is dead
if you were here
we would live in a building with black stone walls
to highlight your beauty when we went for a walk
the sun would catch the dark mischief of your eyes
the eager joy of your delight
people would see first the impossible shadow
thrown against the outer surface
elongated to make you even more elegant and sleek
then their eyes would find you
they would bow and present their hearts
lay them at your feet
you would smile graciously then dance away
we would continue on our way
