“Ask me about my patches”

Was written in Sharpie on a piece of cardboard hung by string and Duck tape from
his backpack.

I didn’t dare ask.
I was late.

The image of hipster: gauged ears, lip and nose pierced, cut-off jacket vest, tight
black jeans, —and patches.

I didn’t dare ask him.
But I was forced to read the large one sewn across his back.

That’s when I realized my first judgment was wrong. Not an image: he was a force,
his patches his power.

That was all just a glance, just a memory of a patch of the face of a woman
with streaked black hair, a tear? its fading... but the words won’t.

The words that I won’t tell; the words that carry with them the power of
the history of man.

Not of humans, of man: man who has ruled this world, man who has buried mother earth
(alive) deep inside herself.

Who pinned her down and penetrated all orifices— inserting, and removing and inseminating;
making her pregnant with *******.

Man—men—when did we do this? Who was the first among us to realize his
superior strength?

I don’t dare ask because I am not ready for the answer.
I am not ready to ask myself the questions that I feel but don’t know.

I realize when I pass someone on the street, I don’t know anything—every woman I see at
night has a past, every man and every child.
I don’t know any of it.

But, I do know some about the history of man.

Friday is pizza night, usually but today is my birthday,
I told my Dad, I asked, “Dad, can I have a skateboard?”
That was couple of days ago, but its Saturday.

I want the kind with big wheels; the kind the big boys ride own the hill on, the big hill.
I can’t do any tricks.
I want it to be blue and red, but mostly blue, my favorite color,
I hope Mom and Dad wake up soon so I can get out of bed and be my birthday
I will be eleven

I think I saw my present in the closet last night,
Not that I was snooping, I don’t, I just think I saw it.
When I get up it will be my birthday and I will be eleven and Dad can make pancakes for breakfast and I can get my present, and later on tonight is pizza and hopefully he makes bacon too and I am going to ask for bacon for my pizza tonight.

It’s later on the same day, it’s a sunny day and still it’s my birthday
and my friend and me, I mean I, we are at the top of a hill the big boys ride down on their boards, and since it’s my birthday and my board I get to go first,
but I’m not going yet because I will in a second.

Mom gave me a helmet so I have that on too, it’s blue too, so I like it
But the board is more red than blue, but it’s okay because the wheels are blue and
You see the wheels all the time but I’m going down the hill on my board now.

It going fast and I am smiling and yelling and my friend is waving back at me,
It’s a long hill down and the bottom turns a little but I didn’t make it to the bottom,
My board slipped and my face, my cheek and forehead under where the helmet was,
Slid on the pavement,

I cried home and my neighbor doctor called me a road pizza.

Six or seven women ranging from thirty to sixty
stand chit-chatting in a somewhat-circle outside the State House.
Slowly, they dry their skin and dye their hair in the smoky sunlight
of the morning break; taking their time off with each long pull and curl.

A light skinned black woman dressed in navy sweater and
pinned with power star speaks to the group.
Deep inside her lungs a road is being paved.

You can hear the tremble of the rollers flattening molten pavement,
the rumble of the endless packs of 100s of dump trucks
the wisp and rasp of steam, the cough and hack of working men who’ve spent too
much time paving roads.

I have never heard anyone say a word in the way that woman said that word
this morning. What was her tone? Condemning?

In her blue commando, she pointed right at me (without ever seeing me)
and said, “Us and our cigarettes...”

Where along did the line become dotted?
When did the line become crossable through gaps?

Steady white line, double parallel yellows
Following this lined street till I find the end,
Till I get to the bottom,
Till this drawn line stays constant and cannot be crossed.

Who was the first to cross this line that is so drawn on my soul?
That so moves me to boil with red convection and spill
Drips down my pan side face. Third degree flame ignited pain
In every line of bone and vain in my body.


Walking by playground filled with shouts and laughs,
Stomping little feet, hands of monkeys.
Nothing but joy and impressions, pressed into the skin.
Children are so easily impressed.

The blacktop filled with lines is the child’s whole world
Of lines to frolic at four-square or hop-scotch to the jungle bars.
On the way to the cafeteria to lunch with pink and blue tennis shoes
And lunch boxes of Snow White and Buzz Lightyear
Listen when told to stay in line.


Listen to:
Lines of scratched skin. Lines crossed.
Lines of makeup drips. Lines crossed always remembered.
Lines of people trying to forget
Being line crossed by one who found a gap.

In the middle of that same bad dream
I always try to wake you up before it happens.

To you who veers the line, you who crossed
You who stings, you who injures:
When and where I meet you,
I will show you these lines.
I will teach you.

What did you say?
I said, let’s go—where?
Does it matter?

Let’s go! Let’s ditch this popsicle stand,
This guy’s popsicles have shards of glass. Let’s go!

What do I say? I say: say what you want to say.
I say: say what you want to say it doesn’t mean anything.

I look for you to ask you
What you have to say. Will you have this?
Will you continue to lick the glass?

Lets go.
Where are we going? Don’t say anything.
Lets go.

What I have to say I am not going to.

Does this mean anything? Do these?
These hands, my bleeding tongue?

Does this get anywhere?
What is “get anywhere”?

Where is everywhere?
I would like to be there.

And I can go there, right here.

And I am never, right here.