--- A N D R E W E P S T E I N
A pattern gives me heartache the city looks like a smoky factory clumps of grayish haze moving as lazily as similes thereís a bird out there punctuating the rhythmic pangs of someone building something or taking it apart Wanna write about me she asks in a towel-wrapper blocks away the swaying man who peed on the blue legs of the mailbox the other dayís bright hectic noon. Iíve made my head and now Iíll lie in it. A roomful of traced faces and forms, proof of the breach between thing and copy. It stumbles it chops it dices fragment-a-poem for only nineteen-ninety-nine going fast. The faceted street should threaten us more, but its conclusive sores are disguised as abstractions. Luck has her get a philosophical driver asks her as he stops did I manage to distract you from your day as if that were the best we can do for each other Hearing again someone say been there done that same old same old makes you want to crayola the fibers of everything Some found that disappearing was no longer a valid option. Others chose the path of least existence. A crowd vetoed everything in sight and I slipped out. Let sleeping songs die not long ago we were addressed to a positive future but vagueness about our coming selves came along and made that emotion obsolete. Itís not raining mistakes or chances. ďWe have ten more minutes of unreality: enjoy it.Ē Sometimes I miss the things I surrendered at the gate, my old charms, the zipper on my bookbag. The new year whipped us up like wind on water and thatís an image I used before I came to dismiss images as faceless. Your trust of the past is fresh, they could say. Or, your progressive pauseless phrasing is a delicious slipknot of nerves. While the new stores fight to stay neck and neck with fashion, a good space opens in my forehead. Thatís the way I press back, resist the one-by-one theft of all my possessions.
© crossconnect 1995-2002
published in association with the |
university of pennsylvania's kelly writers house |