1/31/99

                                                Sunday evening

                                                                                N-Train platform

                                                   silence gathers around me in pairs, passengers,

                                                for their own cause,  breathing softly in the air

                                                that hangs around them, blue moon

                                                watching, from somewhere on the

                                                                other side of twilight.

                                my eyes, wary, scan the ground.

                                my mind fixates, and decides on words, something

                                                I could think, some

                realization I could write down that

                                would bring me to equilibrium

                                so long teetering     up and down

                                                                      against a mirror

                                so suffocating         and understood as the

                                                                  quivering brilliance

                                so struggled with     chattering teeth and tight arm-hugs

                                                                       to hold back the fear

                                so blamed unnecessarily on myself.

                                         But this is a whole smattering of clichés, strumming

                                                along at a blue tempo, ambushing

                                        me with anxieties

                                 so long not needed     permutations of situations

                                 so glued to my head        back and forth,                                       

                                                                                                back and forth.

                                It is not you,

                                                love,

                                                                that I fear.

                                This is my own fucked up reaction to how I react with the world.

                                My arms to move around,

                                My legs, to simply walk, or sit,

                                My mouth, to kiss or speak or spit,

                                My eyes to gleam, fluorescent grit,

                                My cock to hum along (in time) with it,

My ass, to filth, and shit;

                                                But these all meet as this little closed off universe:

                speaking this,

                                my fingers in diagonal lines on wrists,

                genius stare, past, through,

                transcending, absorbing,

                noticing needing

                you,

                so little to say, so little to say,

                so little reason to stay,

                down Steinway Street,

                                and Broadway, so

                sing!   to this and that,

                    the absence of a tipped hat,

                                liquors, and their hazes,

                                subways, and

                                                   strangers,          

                                                say my name without reservation,

                                with or without joy, a smile, or none,

                                (and I’m getting old,

                                   wrestling with the beginnings of a canker sore,

                                                jealous and cold, begging for more...)

                                                                   But:

                                                     this is a war:

                                                   Battling for equilibrium

                                                        with a crazy city

                                                bouncing off you, every corner,

                                                and you, sick, tired, somewhat

                                                                                bored

                                       seek the groove, and whistle off-key,

                                         rubber soles on the pavement sea,

                                                scratching where your feet are,

But:

                                this is a war so far:

                and the only bloodshed that I see

                                has been my inconsistency.

                                Pretty good

                                                for me

                blue moon,

                                1999, goodbye

                                                     January