Should Your Heart Skip a Beat When Taking the MBT at Night?
Another morning in Brookland: construction everywhere,
parents caught in the vortex of rearing, my freshly trimmed
beard. It’s off to work with a whole playlist of new songs to try!
Here we are, scraping the snake rattle, making dub
in the land of continuous displacement.
The ketchup ovens sing in the street-wise daylight
proactively unshackling ignorant shade.
Here is the Department of Dance, and here are some
trembling poinsettias. Nice gummy punching bag!
Tonight we will sleep in the slight wavering of blankets;
we’ll hit the clubs looking good in mashed tights.
This poem is about no one. It’s about a place
or a feeling, or something between them.
I pan right and see napkin folds; I pan left
and behold accomplished men. Further left:
Italian priests. With only your neck you could start a revolution,
Brâncuși, and fix the dubious love of penguins.
It costs nothing to wander around this city
enjoying the machines of sentiment.
Life is a constant rearrangement project. Let’s check it out
with our souls.
art by Arturo H. Medrano