There’s a lot of hustle and bustle going around.
…
A straight-haired brunette walks in, not even my favorite and still so beautiful.
She used to seem out of my league; now our ages are close to one another’s.
I pick her up, chest to chest, and rotate her around. We are both wearing overalls. We talk some more. I brush a strand of hair past her ear; she likes it.
I lean into her gentle buzzing kiss and dissolve into awakening.
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Your wisp of smile: a wisdom of roses. Let me tell you: I kiss each one. Tell me: how many?
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I’m hobbling around the apartment. There are some really old computers here: computers with screens build into the box, some screens with monochrome orange.
There is a young blond here who is a wiz; he knows all of these machines.
“About time I got rid of them,” I say.
The scene shifts; I’m in a public workroom/gymnasium.
I look up to my room; it’s at the top of a very high cinder block wall like a prison barracks. Some young, strapping men are there.
“Look at what they are doing to your hat,” someone says in mild disgrace. They hold my hat out the window/hole and rip the hat to shreds to spite me.
Some guys still have respect for me and say things to the effect of “for the sake of the old-timer”.
And, I do reach for than leash/rope and stay up, suspending gravity a while, but miss grabbing it. Then, I want to quit, but I try again and realize to get at it I have to wake up for real.
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I have two snakes that come out from inside me. One is a nice snake; the other is mischievous.
The ticket booth demands I swallow the snakes as a condition for entry. I refuse to enter. The snakes go about their way as I stand before the amusement park entrance.
Say it. Say it: it’s unfair that they sing while you have no song. No. Sing it. Sing it!
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A woman is dealing out cards to me. As I receive each card I analyze it and tell its meaning.
After a while I realize I’m describing Tarot cards and its philosophy.
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Metallic nails with flecks of green, metallic eyes pierce me, crystallize my insides, and — ping–pong–ping — your light reflects through me. Then the warmth dissolving my chest until — what’s this? — flowers pouring out onto my embrace until through my arms they burst and a river of flowers floods over my dam hands.
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What would I do if my blues weren’t beautiful?
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With every chisel, freedom. Within my text, a poem.
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I’m in a classroom. A black woman talks with another couple of black people.
Then she asks me “if you could be a black person, would you be one?”
I fluster at this question and say… well I’m not a black person, so I can’t be one.
Class is about to start.
There is a pool table with some brown plastic eggs and some white plastic eggs; they are all separated in half; I quickly go about matching the halves with there appropriately colored other half and put them all in the pool pockets.
A lady professor is about to lecture.
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