You are rubbing the wrong skin
from this vantage, and I knew something was up
so I practiced again and again the narrative
(see?), to get it reified, but it didn’t
they are all still dancing
and I realize it’s very vague, it’s complicated
and palpitating, it makes you tequila-call
your younger brother, this walk home
alone, after the bullshit I’ve seen
but I knew it would end like this
cold night, ice rain coating the boughs
but I don’t trip because I’m careful
and yes, I’m talking about the rubbing again
and yes, I’m talking to moiself again
about moiself, (you dig? do you dig me?) and
goddam, not another stupid box, every year
this gets more serious, every year I give
away heart chunks to the sacrificial fire
for fantastic charring, like cave dwellings, look.
This is going to get explicit, Frank.
Have you ever noticed that whenever you lay
your eyes on, rest your eyes on, or whatever
poor stop-gap we’ve got for daisy-field pan-vision
a person here, they possess an infinitesimal sheen
maybe in the fold of a cuff or a tendency to spit in high mafia style?
I know, Frank, about the grind, people picking
their faces on the train, and charcoal smells.
I’ve learned, Frank, how to angle my chin
and my lower eyelid.
But have you ever noticed the way late-night
passengers orient themselves, like sunflowers
towards the sunrise monstering down the track?
It could go on in lists, Frank, Indian
food with Tania in Brooklyn Heights,
Puerto Rican with Hugh in Williamsburg,
the soft saltiness of pork belly torta.
But in the end, it’s not about proper names or spices, Frank
rather than the gauze of loveliness. Poor as shit but sharing
champagne on a Tuesday night, we are sharing
it together in a honeycomb.
In the anonymity of the subway, in the spot-the-rat game you win
with pestilence. You may recoil from the swarthy man
cleaning his larynx, so close you imagine
clutching him and burping him.
Your loved ones are in the honeycombs, Frank, spitting their spit
in suede shoes, their swagger in the transitions.