“are you upset about my premonition,”
i ask him, “about you and your quinoa
this morning?” imaginary beginnings.
trying to learn how not to walk straight,
i always seem to walk a line (it’s alright if this
has you thinking of johnny cash).
when gliding through semi-consciousness,
barely touching upon any context, except that
we’re dancing, me and my machine. and
we’ve all the context we need (the
only memorable thing thus far, now that
you are reminded by a change in volume
that you hit play on a recent tiny desk concert
that now replays on the big television screen at
the foot of the bed, to your right, just over
the still life of fruit and vegetables) noticing as you do
that the lead rap-mama just used the word texts in
some no doubt salacious sense but has prounced it,
distinctly, texas. this is after she’s sung
three of four boring numbers at the top of the
set. but now she turns the volume up as we all know
she can, stretching those bronx vowels
at a clip that’s about twice as fast as a horse’s
trot and, waving her arms around and about in
an illogical but fluid fashion, she shifts gears,
booms: CHANGE THE VIBE! CHANGE
THE VIBE! CHANGE THE VIBE!
whatever stain from being so down
and out for the past few years, no
matter how impossible it is to
scrub away the ink of that squalor (life in the
institution of destitution) .... i grew up
with folks who worked like mad just to
ensure us kids got to coast up through
adolescence and beyond unaware of any
hardcore financial obstacles – oh, we each
got our turns helping clip coupons, it’s
not like frugality wasn’t preached at us from
numerous angles with regularity, but
we had it easy peasy. whatever my father’s
lesser dreams or otherwise perverted
desires (of which there seemed a
seemingly endless supply), his overarching
motivation of giving us each a better life
than he had when our age was the loudest,
the most consistent. just back from my
weekly food pantry clack-tapping these
lines onto the laptop perched upon
my circular pillow, my wrists bouncing around
on either side of touchpad, rocking it back and
forth atop my bed, next to a pile of cantaloupe,
bok choi, onions, tiny white potatoes, zucchini,
green oranges, squash, lemons, a package of
spaghetti and two big bags of green lentils.
oh, when your lower back is hurting and your
body can’t help but begin to dance like a marionette
that mimics the oversized cellphone or the miniature
word processor that dances before you, at your whim,
and you’re sated (but slightly dry-mouthed) by the
multi-colored array that’s wrapped like a cornucopia
half-in, half-out of your fuzzy brown comforter that you
promise yourself will go into the wash this evening, when
you’ll clean, chop and then sautee a select and generous assortment
in the frying pan you’ve been wanting for years but have
only just been able to purchase.....and you’re not
much of a chef but you just know you have
so much desire that you’ve become convinced has
an intense potential for talent—so much so (and this
happens often enough) that you can barely contain yourself.
