4.20 in the morning.

i seek to find the origins of words, such as:        "hello,"

within the greater plane of interpersonal possibility.

safe 

inside 

the hollow walls of the city,

with all its      fashionable anonymity---admirably aloof:

the street lamps wave, the pavement breathes,

the concrete, steel and iron stand sentinel 

and bring the populace to their knees.

from the thirty-second floor         of a modern-day monument to urban sprawl,

over the traffic

i swear i hear the abandoned kittens in the alleyway caterwaul my name . . . 






i sit here        blank; hungry as before

and bleeding from the chin.         4.20 in the mornin.

smoke is pourin        from the window sills,

but i've taken my fill from lungs---

expand, contract,        expand, contract---

and felt the plates along my spine react accordingly:

i know the meaning of this pulse;

it is the tick that keeps the lonely time,

it is the beat my soul steps two         steps, three steps 

wiser,

bolder,

brighter. i wanna get closer

to you all

than you've let me

before. run circles 'round your imaginations and astound you with vocabulary,

incite riots among the contents of your belly






to belly i can picture us:

waking---a toe seeks a thigh, a lip a kiss,

an eye        a mirror        amongst flesh and well-phrased whispers.

but i lack words         and crave

a thread of thought to weave more easily in and out the fabric of my mind

and make it's way into that collective existence, carefully constructed and  
       
referred to commonly as         "reality."       

there you could pick it up like a stone,

clasp it tight within your palms, 

arch it upwards in your fingers, 

squint your eye at it at arms length,         sharp-angled,
 
and with it,         block out the sun.

it would be a tongue unleashed upon the world, 

a story for the masses to behold, a truth that would

wrangle all the urban, grid-ridden boys and girls         into the renowned art 

of quasi-eloquence 

just from the sight of it---an oracle of honesty, a minimalist religious monument

to rub for good luck 

on high-holy days 

so that unrequited love and casual conversation over coffee remains worship-worthy . . . 






 . .  . but sentences don't synthesize as succinctly in this, our modern america,

where bodies speak volumes          in rest and in motion.

the sidewalk is the autobahn

and we all blindly speed along

these streets---the original overrated information super-highway.

never         knowing        no one, but always

wanting         for a kind word in edgewise

from the attractive stranger on the opposite corner,

the friendly face behind the counter,

the woman with her hand held out for spare change and room to be
 
something more than

a shadow

amongst






green light:         go;        red light: stop.

red light: stop;        green light . . .








written 4.17.00

• Chy Ryan Spain

to POETRY REFERENCE PAGE

BACK to ME!