24 of 30. Making Love to June

 

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

hungry

nauseous

hungry

nauseous.

While I was riding around I wondered

why I couldn’t just stop and write

why I haven’t been able to sit down

and write

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

to space #24, #12, #8.

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.

 

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in 30 in 30, Photography by Amy Leigh Cutler, Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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