Studio Notebooks 1 : Union Station, May 7, 2012

Maybe I think

that if I spend enough time,

quietly looking,

I will fall in love with you again.

If I just stare long enough,

the ways that you hurt me

will collapse under the weight

of your perfect beauty…

The odd faces you make

when you aren’t talking

or thinking, mouth hung

open, or locked in a frown

How you scratch your elbow

or favor one side

of your body

while you stand in line,

leaning always

into your

right hip.

How your disembodied harmonica

braids into

the fibers

of your thousands of t-shirts.

How it always feels

like the beginning or end

of a hitchcock flick

—yellow light dashing

across a 6 o’clock floor

waxed smooth

save for the ridges

of shadow

that erupt

around the contour of an absent foot

—the contours of a thousand absent feet.

Maybe some of this is about evasion.

Escaping the question all together

—escaping the letters

and books

persistently begging

for your testimony.

Or how you practice

complicated dance steps,

while smoking a cigarette,

waiting in the passenger pick-up zone.

Maybe our new love

won’t leave any evidence.

It’ll all be locked up tight,

swimming in the liberation of memory

—and I’ll have to sit facing you,

trying to form enough

coherent sentences

for you to believe

that you know what happened.

And the love somehow,

will rest gently on the threads

stretched between our open mouths

vibrating.

And then

Maybe it is about occupation.

An occupied body.

The desire to move

through space,

what compels anyone

to carry on

even after you’ve broken my heart

With the tearing apart

Of belief

With the vicious biting

of starvation, rape,

burning books, electric walls.

The executions.

Maybe our new love swells

Inside the seams of occupation,

inside the seams of your body

And the thing that held it together

becomes the thing

That will tear it apart

How you fine tune

your hustle.

Your hustle

My hustle

Sell me a toothbrush

on the go, batteries,

leather wallets,

a tragic story, banjo song.

How you shift

in your leather seat—again

woken up

By the noise of busy hands

sifting through

The trashcan

Looking for food.

How you argue, stare,

fall apart, asleep, wait, walk, run,

drag a toddler by the arm, push a cart

full of flowers, garbage, clothes,

aluminum cans, beg for change,

dodge loitering laws, negotiate

your rolling home, check

the time, take a sip

of coffee, remember.

Remember when you sat on that bench with your lover,

when you found a hundred dollar bill and gave it back,

when you wished someone had asked how you were,

when you prayed that he would accept your invitation,

how you thought it would all work out,

made the best of things,

spent your last two dollars on coffee,

ignored the person sitting next to you,

didn’t check to see if the crying stranger was okay,

stopped to look at rain falling,

fed a bird,

dropped everything on the ground,

ran your fingers through your hair,

took a breath.

Maybe it is about remembering.

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One comment

  1. I really like this work!!!

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