stranger (#232)

			

simple pleasures:

chilly weather.

	the irony of urban chic.

	the insurmountable potential
 
	             for respectable observance of
 
	             the unwritten laws of        personal        space.

	sitting in the smoking section . . .




sucking up the auditories       --->tell me        something good . . . 

between quick, sticky sips

of pretentious iced mochas & two

-day stale cigarettes.



	
        pay-back minus connectivity equals awe-stuck, guiltless splendor.




oOgel out the window as

past lovers reassert that---        yes:

we did once feel         the fickle fingers        tickle our tongues into:

this is happening . . . &        yes:

so you are still in center city.

same address,

same home phone number,

             same         job 
    
             same        hair
       
same

all-together forgettable conundrum.




        & we can sit here         in the same

coffee shop, sharing the same moment in time        comfortably ignoring

              that either ever existed         with every apathetic inhalation of

marlboros,

ozone &

             atmosphere;




             hear the tinkle of well-shaped,         rough

-edged cubes

against our respective glass fixations & not even flinch;




             traipse trippingly, lack a dais ic

& what not, in waxed poetics          over

one

night together w/ crossed wires & the memory of limbs

             stitchedtight        into each other's flesh

complete with unholy chemical cocktails
 
coursing through the blood/brain barrier;




view-master flash         of what you look like        naked: & white.

alien         & invulnerable to post-coital

recognition.




old axioms reinscribe a new universal truth:

that which does not kill us

makes us        stranger.




[check please!]






written 9.23.99

• Chy Ryan Spain

to POETRY REFERENCE PAGE

BACK to ME!