Waiting for the bus to the red line to the white walls of his apartment teeming with a crazed woman's revelations and a rough-cheeked damsel's dreams of underwater welding/ Claritin and Clonipan pulsing from my neck to my forearms--why does the allergy/anxiety meds cocktail give me the jitters? Maybe it's the boy or the book in my bag, the one that changed his life, he said/ or the dandelion mistress traveling in a caravan of borrowed cars as I write this, the one whose voice curled up in my ear through the phone, said she missed me times three.
Maybe it's muscle: Fingers trembling from overuse on guitar strings, on computer keys, in his hair or up his shirt (I never expect to find swollen flesh there)/ Never confused, just curious/ Curious about myself, too, and so much of that self sleeps in him, careening itself against my ribcage until the wind is knocked out of my mouth, until I'm dizzy on a panel of concrete wondering if the homeless man on the corner thinks we're fags or dykes or if he cares at all (I don't).
Always in transit, always in motion/ Wheels stolen, but the red line rush is enough for a fix. She carries me north again and again and I fall into books on the way/ Writing (riding) red lines, counting syllables that matter.
mmmmmmmmmmmmmm
ReplyDeletei like this.
what's the book in yr bag?