Today on a borrowed bicycle I couldn’t find words
or a place to rest
so I rode through the lower east side
and let my stomach mutter about how it wanted falafel
or a bento box
or nothing at all because
I’d slept too close to the air conditioner last night
and woke up with water between the ears and nose,
which threw off my equilibrium and made me
While I was riding around I wondered
why I couldn’t just stop and write
why I haven’t been able to sit down
why when I write I think about
what I should be doing instead,
and then I saw this painter
using his finger to smear the pink
neck of a woman on the wall.
He ran his hands over her
and stepped back to the curb.
I’ve been so tired lately. It’s like I can’t
catch up on enough sleep
or tweet current enough statuses
or pull my brain out of that cloud of static
it finds itself emptying itself into so often.
I cried on 7th street watching him.
Then wiped my eyes and asked a less angelic painter
what was going on.
When he spoke he turned to angel too
and his hands were covered in the golden dust.
There were others painting, sketching on the wall
applying blues and yellows
Marked out of the long white washed wall
with crude black lines.
It’s the annual HOWL festival and
Ginsberg’s done it again.
He got those dancers up on stage
put the girls
on toe shoes
until the men pointed pretty gun fingers at them,
then swooped them overhead while the
children made murals on the concrete.
And the weather is perfect,
and the poets show up late,
and I lay the borrowed bike down
on the great lawn
at the peak of the hill
and let the sun
moan above me
like a lover.