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Street Wanderings
I walk up to you like the beggar. But I don't want your spare transit change. I am more interested in the emptiness of your pockets. I might be interested in the stranded items in your pockets, too, but not your sticky caramel nickels. By stranded items I mean, for example: a shopping receipt, your meds, your cigarettes, your love note, your potato chip crumbs, your lint, your poem napkin from the Galaxy diner. I walk up to you like a starving dog on the coarse beaches of Papua New Guinnea with my ribs showing wanting to lick your face as I listen to your sacred words in that moment, your secret mind and soul crossing a bridge into an artist's trust to imagine, to feel, your history. But I understand we can be like prisons, like pigeons puffing in the black niches of wet bridges. I understand we hide like potato bugs underneath garden stones. If the knowledge of eachother is not important then we remain doomed to impersonal knowledge (which isn't knowledge, just another fashion remark), doomed to the stagnant sound of ambulence sirens in the rain as the window wipers squeek left and right and the smell of gas enters your crusty nostrils and your head is turned away from me out the window looking at the streaks of rain on the glass and melting into the fog of your bad breath. Just another silent ride, if only you would hydroplane on the road maybe we would shout out a last minute scream for love.
Sometimes I won't walk up to you. I am in a period of solitude. In order to live in solitude for a time one needs to untangle their emotions, mount them and tame them to your voice and will. If not, solitude is a state of suffering. People are shielding subway advertisements, our moving bodies reflect in the glass cover, grafitti scribbles another dick and pussy joke on the digitally enhanced body of some celebrity or skin care model. So I just look, keeping my distance, in another trance and meditative state as I draw the many lines of your face. Many of the dropped items of the street- which is being decorated with housing projects and sexy graphic designs, but still extremely raw in that those who truely understand the street experience its reality, [its glass crunches under bare foot, its oily gravel, its lipstick smudged cigarette butts, its stranded bullets, its knife wounds, its gang grime, etc.], have no resources to contend with corporations, the bite of an untrained and unloved pipil) appear depressing collectively. But not always. When an integration happens with art, life is seen, the blind man's cloth comes off every day.
Latest page update: made by Stridefull
, Sep 11 2007, 8:00 PM EDT
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Edited by Stridefull
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Edited by Stridefull
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