Poetry; "Stick Figure Robot Dance"

Late spring Boston hot sun
pavement days cold ocean wind
night walking through a crowd
of thrift store jackets and ties
with my headphones on,
wondering if I’m part of this
if for only a second, wondering
why there are never ball point pens lying around the sidewalk
like pennies or cigarette butts.

The rain was sober
for the first time in fifteen days. I
wear socks and alcohol to bed
because it’s too cold to sleep if I don’t and sleep
with a stuffed bumblebee
because the illusion has to suffice.

This is all true. This is an apology
to a girl who makes me feel like my heart is a balloon
filled with jello
hitting a catcher’s mask.

In grade school
they never taught me how to seize opportunity.
Like a diabetic boy in a gummy bear factory after hours
and the only thing left to do
is sit on the floor
and try to remember how to finger-paint.

The crowd talking about kickball
and what bands are playing the party tonight,
I think, I don’t know, I can’t read lips
that well, headphones on.
My New England
is the scent of burning oak logs; the asphalt steam
of coffee cups and potter’s soil.

The sky is a tide pool
a slide show
a cord with knots tied into it
every inch or two. The dead
rising from the ground on escalators,
the living trapped in the sound of unmoving tires.


A Short Aside:

Your sins as lotion
into my skin
like silly putty pressed to the false
and fantastic sky at midnight.
There is a half empty bed and boy
who thought about kissing you last summer
just to say he got slapped
or something to do with imported beer or pirates.

It's a terrible idea that makes me heart stung and quiet.
Your eyeliner frames
your imperfections;
some people call that art,
and I can hold my own with anyone. I know this now.
I've drawn women that don't exist,
but the reality I met with its messy hair
and scars is so much more.


Shoulder to shoulder in a crowded bus
face planted into a book wondering
if I am even part of the crowd,
even riding the bus. Arms shift from pockets to knees
eyes shift from knees to every space where no one in a crowd is looking.

Out the window a tiny Kool-Aid sunset
a human aquarium
sans the little kids and souvenirs,
more shades of red
happening here than in a kindergarden crayon mishap,
more fashion
than has happened on my body over the last twenty four years.
Even PJ Harvey turned in her black turtleneck and boots
for new wave hair
and a yellow Elvis print dress.

This is all true. Later. Balmy spring Boston on a bench
by the Charles River behind Commonwealth Ave.

The river reflects the sky
in submerged neon -
the sky itself an eraser-marked sheet
of sun-faded construction paper.

These are days when nothing sounds so ugly
as church bells in the hot afternoon; hunger
a perverse indulgence
of gluttony.

Twilight wound around beer
and small talk.
Orgasms -- grass roots blues concerts
playing down our spines.

We were quiet then.
The night pinpricked
and held against a white bulb
for only as long as it would not catch fire.

This is all true. Later. Passing by bistros
art cafes art school
waitresses smoking cigarettes on break,
headphones off thinking I’ve tried too hard
to be part of that crowd
set to the sound
of a man with no fashion sense
playing guitar
for people who see fashion sense as out of style,
who don’t see themselves
outlined by wet cement or paint chips.

This cool muggy air a metaphorical red-haired girl
whose scarf is the wrong shade of empathy.

This is all true. Flowers blooming headphones off
riding another bus west on Commonwealth Ave
wondering just for a moment
I am not part of this crowd. Someone muses:
“eating wings hand grilled by Elvis.”
passing through a part of the city
where people spend the bulk of their waking lives
waiting for public transportation.

Later. Harvard Ave and a car radio
wafts audio recordings
of famous paintings,
and I see window displays cascaded with lamp lit mannequins
and yellowed library books stuffed in boxes of animal crackers.

Sitting on the sidewalk with an ice cream cone,
headphones on
a crowd of Red Sox jerseys passing by spring
evening Boston and I wonder if even for a moment
I am part of that crowd.

Ice cubes are all that separate us from the apes,
men are wrapped in hardwood floors wearing throw rugs
as hats. This is all true. God is a stock option
in a buyer’s market
and luxury is drowned in char and snow
when no snow had fallen the night before.

When I was little I made a crayon
drawing of myself on a tomato
and ate it
so no one could ever see it.
I stood in the backyard after school,
eyes closed, gargling the rain
because somewhere in my stomach
was a self-portrait
that wouldn't digest.