If there was only one small piece of humanity
Left turned inside out on the southern end of the city
It would be yours
….If no one has stolen it by now

The birds would all be trapped under ice
And the singing inside of my ears would echo
Through the concrete haze
And the resounding melody would fill the
Fissures and dunes of distant plains
With distant breathing
Pushing and pulling carbon monoxide, or sulfur
Or whatever they decide to circulate
Into themselves

But they would feel it, also
Distorted and a bit muffled
Quieter than the original
Pulsing and rushing through
While the river dances with anticipation
For the rose skies and the dazzling lights
To be bombarding the strip in synchronicity
Only for a mere 15  

And by the water we would sit like always
Gabbing about the memories that now put dark rings under our eyes
And crevices into our palms
Or saying nothing at all
Only looking forward
Or up
Or down
Or spinning in circles
And pretending to be in a tango with the breeze
That is nowhere to be found
On the island
In the summer

And we would always look at people’s shoes
Most of the time turning up our noses
Yet knowing that adding insult to injury
Is never polite
So I would un-furrow my brow
And hold on to the seat
While you held your head proud and straight
So I would do the same
Because we’re better than that
Though in a silent way
It was known to both
That we didn’t want to be, and it was ok that way
And in the park
In the spring
With the smell of infant chlorophyll and fruit smoothies
Floating and melting into the ground beneath us
Where the rats at night scatter and scavenge
We would laugh and laugh
And taunt
All of those unfortunate kids
Who were stupid enough to stay in school
On such a morning
In such a place  
And miss the look of the square
Or the looks on our faces
Or the delight of our freedom  

And in my tear stained face
And reddened cheeks
You would glance once and like a timer going off
Your voice would soften
And the miniscule lines by your mouth would reappear
And you would tell me that everything would be ok
Even when I was wailing and gasping for air
Your eyes continued to stay next to mine
Just like your hand
Patting my back
And holding my panic stricken mind conscious  
Telling me everything would be ok
In the car
Or the hospital
Or the airport
And every single time
I would genuinely believe you  


So there you are
Feet on the asphalt
Or the tile
Or the wood
Or the sand
Holding yourself steady
Rushing or if necessary, pushing
Always pushing
Because you are better than that
You always were and always will be
Like the river which dances for the sunset
Or the birds that choose to sing and freeze rather than fly for warmth
Or the bridges that ignite at dusk

And I will continue in long strides  
Behind
Or In Front
Or hopefully, one day
Beside
So you can tell me it will all be ok
So I can smile
And laugh at your shoes

There’s a meek sort of rasping
Coming from across the train
With frail marrow and a kind smile
Stitched together by a thread of longing and courtesy
Opaque hues of denim
As murky as the winter sea
Rocked by the motion of the rails
Search the frills of a child’s collar
For the forgiveness only time can give
Her shadowed eyes bore into mine

But as I tried to furnish a reaction
A white skirt blocks my view
And towers over like all of those pretty American buildings
I’ve only seen in tattered pages and cracked voices
Of forlorn faces and war torn memories
And her golden hair is molded by a red ribbon
And her long nails dig into her beige purse
And she stares towards the doors
Biting her lips and passively planning an escape route
As the train pulls to a stop

Then a swarm of moving bodies knock her and numerous more
Into the swell
And out on the platform
Attention is peaked by the two snickering girls
With navy skirts and matching hair bows
The size and color of a setting sun
Who drop their faces and grab their leather portfolios
And sprint out of the closing doors
About to miss their stop

And careful pupils follow their retreating forms
But they are not just my own
As cascading chestnut locks
Frame a plush nose
And a supple body
With a ***** apron around the waist
And folded fingers with crossed calves
A queen living in a pauper’s mirror
While cradling a bag full of bleach and ammonia
Keeping an eye on a basket full of apples

Which keep being searched thoroughly
With small eager palms
From a mother’s lap
With little auburn curls
Blocking out the view of the guardian
Who, with soothing speech, forming lines and dainty features
Reaches out to the child with fruit
And every unspoken word
That she will never hear from her own mother
Teaching her unspoken lessons
Of the distant and sought after dreams of youth and childhood
Which so many want, but so few acquire
Which so many held but had to lose


Like the younger lady
With a book in hold
And a stitched brow
Browsing through the myriad of pages
Ink stained hands frantically flipping through
Each passage, each syllable
Slowly wrapped into information
And passion the color of her hair
And the specks of prolonged sunlight
Dusted upon her cheeks
Which were glowing red with frustration and a thirst
For approval of those who had previously turned their noses
That a mere manual could not quell nor explain
The emptiness growing in the heart of useless searching, or her wallet


With the endless thrumming of the rails
And night falling on the light like a fire proof blanket
The cabin almost empty to the only presence beside my party
Head turned
Leering through the window
The darkness pulling on her hair
Shoulders slumped but back as stiff as a board
With one leg pulled under the other
And the smell of soft dirt or pelting rain
Permeating from the seat
The conscious form with abyssal eyes as dark and oceanic as the deep
Searching the night world outside of the window
For specks of light within the vast, swallowing landscape
A digit sliding off the pane, smearing anything found into sweat and vapor
The coldness of her eyes, filled with rage and grief quickly dart in one direction
As her neck snaps towards me, whether out of disgust or courtesy

I quickly turn away and into the warmth of my grandmother’s form
And smother my face in her wrinkled hands
As she pats my head, and calls me by my first name
The cabin at a halt, and her line of sight towards
The two men with white gloves and red symbols on their uniforms
Hauling off the poor old woman
Who’s rasping had eventually given way to suffocation
And my inattention had given way to more than I had cared to see

With small opaque eyes
As murky as the winter sea
With every rasping breath
And a kind smile
No longer wanting courtesy

When I asked you of your favorite color
You told me that red looks great on my dress
But you wouldn’t paint a wall with it

Green makes a nice salad
But you wouldn’t necessarily want to eat it

And when I asked you about blue,
Shaking hands with silence left me feeling more estranged than usual


Though the sterling midnight sky
And the bitter cup of coffee
Couldn’t match the ridges of coal
Between the pool of amber in your iris
And the smoky black that was the pupil

The rain that pelted the window
I had imagined to be a harmony of hues both
Forest green like the towering pines and like the
Hunched weeping willows with their tears being
A myriad of cerulean now cascading from the ash clouds
Which gathered about our heads



A quiet thrumming of traffic in the torrential downpour
Tends to sounds like the collective beating of a scarlet heart
With highways as blue and violet veins
And capillaries screaming across the mortal plane
With each thump, each minute, each color

But with heavy eyes and dark plum circles rounding out your lids
You sat there straining to grasp the train of thought that
Kept being derailed at every word
With each merciless stare and meek disdain
That was once splattered pink across the face of your mother

And without a further misconception or
Dejected thought
Suspended in a time frame of confusion
You grabbed my hand
And with muck-brown eyes
Looked into mine like a sailor lost in shadowed blue waters
And spoke of love
With golden glazed verbs
And honeyed adjectives
Weaving intricately together



So then I stand
Pull out my hand
And taking the bluest depths of the ocean with me
Storm out to the concrete lot

But you catch on
And with pleading eyes the color of a pitch black chasm
Try and make me sympathize
To agree
To understand
To stay and to listen
To love and to hold



But how can I?
When you don’t even have a favorite color.

Being born out of an oil spill
With gasoline swimming in the veins and capillaries
Cells spilling energy
Weeping for the blood of aged ideals
Shoved down the throat
Choking on dissonance and disenchantment

Ideals as clean cut as yours
Are easy to get lost in
Forgetting that your vision
Is fueled by the ants who
Breathe in sulfur and expel energy
For those who do not give them a time of day
And worse so, for those who discredit their life forces
And families who have known nothing
But the trade

If it’s all a dream
Then you have one leg in the door already
Honeysuckle filling the senses
Grass beneath bare feet
Branches wrapping themselves around your body
Like a safe house
Like a security blanket
Comforted by your origins
Remain within simplicity

But you’ll never get to know
The music of the taxis
Playing all the night and day
Signaling that movement is happening
Every day
Every night
Every hour
Every minute
Every second
Every time you bat your lids
For every face you see once in your life
And every train that you happen to miss by a single millisecond

You’ll never comprehend the joy
Upon a child’s face when they see that gray pigeon
Scavenging for crumbs
Padding small feet towards small feet
Knowing that they are equal only in that moment
And the curve of the lines on the man’s face
As he screams into his cell phone
And abruptly brushes past your shoulder
Running down to the corner of William and Cedar
And you losing his face in the crowd
Embracing a part of his anger, a part of his life
Only then and forever

You’ll never understand the value
Of a paved road
Of a rooftop sunset
Of a stranger’s compliment
Of the myriad of blinking lights
Filling the night like the stars you constantly harp on about
Each and every light a life

These are our stars

And if you look closely, you can still see the originators
Framing the sky with dim rays
Serving as both a reminder and a work ethic

There is a price to pay for progress
But without risk
Without passion
We have nothing
And it may be easy
To turn up your nose on those who choose to live amongst
Concrete and haze
Like a PETA member chooses an animal
Over the dignity of a woman
But I assure you that
One day you will forget the value of the clock
But the greatest gift the city has given is
Not a gift
But a reminder
We are all cells on a timeline

As much as we should work hand in hand
To sustain our dreams
Your spitefulness is misdirected and blinded
Choosing the scapegoat of the cover
Over the contents of the book

And as someone born from the oil spill
I find that offensive.

They are the wise
They who sit in trees
And discuss the daily happenings of their fellow comrades
They who shed their homes like winter coats
And disguise themselves as birds
Observing the fields and meadows
Speaking of their mother in high regard
As they turn their noses up at the others
They who question the sanity of the world
And pick apart each work of man
Or anything that has touched their hands
Or their purified bodies
They who shout and shriek at those with nicer rags
While they make mental notes as to rip apart their belongings
They are the wise

I am a fool
I am the concrete foundation of a dilapidated building
I am the dirt that crunches under your feet like autumn leaves
When you step up on the main road to hail a cab
I am the nose on the glass of a department store window
One who spends the day touching tangible matter
And winds up with the night meaning close to nothing
I am the flickering lights in an office cubicle
Going on and off to the beat of a dying daydream
I am the voice who is hollering through the red lights
Confusion setting in as a catalyst to a never ending nightmare
Providing silver slivers of comfort to those stuck running in circles
And to those weeping for the sanctuary of their beings
As bombs are being dropped on their brethren in the distance
We are interrogated by the wise
For being a part of the materialistic cataclysm
With our platinum walls and our glass coffee tables
Singing to the tune of the CEO’s gold pockets
Wiping the sanctity of human interaction away
Into an oblivion of technological advancements
Which are produced with aching hands
In far off lands with people screaming at their lost demands and
The bombs being dropped on their brethren

We say no
While the wise cower in their tall fields of wheat
And run naked through their meadows with the sun shining on their backs
While they bathe under the waterfalls and point fingers at everyone who has ever owned a cell phone
We sit in the middle of crowded, chrome, contradictions that keep everyone else at a distance
While somehow still creating a chaotic sort of unity
To stand under the lights radiating off of shining high rises
To walk with the shadows of anonymity trailing slowly behind us
Into a silent resistance that moves more than mountains that the wise so fondly speak of

For our foolishness is our greatest strength
Martyrs are born, not made