The Passenger

Published in Body

I feel fractious, high mutt, a problem
that figures blackboards into chalk clouds, cirrus

shit, let me show you my tap-dancing scar, cheek
to scowl from performing wicked scissor kicks

across Moscow's notorious ear-waxed floors
as a boy, night after night, two shows each Sunday,

I never wore shoes, no, those were for firebirds, instead I used a nail gun to shoot steel brads

through my feet, I was thrilling in my pashmina
leaving the boards crossed with my ruby score,

today I ride the train to work, one circle pit
after the next, at Back Bay the doors open,

now I surf the crowd, aiming for the exit,
seizing hair extensions and cauliflower ears

for balance, my fog-laden Alps are bereft
of Romantics, as you carry me toward the hole

in the car, to my calcite station, I can smell
the gladioli incense, the Brahmin beer,

hummingbirds are stripping cocoanut Munchkins,
through the skyspace I see can see the cranes

returning, anise, the reek of insomnia, lift me
toward the milky rift, let me show you my wallet,

genuine tongue, serious giraffe, money talks
blue streaks, please lick my myrtle-scented pits,

please kiss my Goddamn Florsheims, as a boy
I never wore shoes, no, those were for firebirds,

now I surf the crowd, aiming for the exit
seizing breast implants and penile extensions

for balance, my sun-smacked deserts are bereft
of pilgrims, as you carry me toward the tumulus

I can taste pretzels and honeycomb, the glow
of your laptop grows rusty, I can almost taste

the bronze escalator, I can hear a teenager
wearing army boots and a Baby Bjorn

play "Immigrant Song" on her cello,
I'm a little ship on your waves, hauling me

to market, strew my hair plugs with mistletoe,
and strangle me with ruby laces, pretty please.


last updated Thursday, November 29, 2012 @ 8:39 AM