This is how we go
how it goes where
it goes, why, though?
Why, though?

Could be any reason.
Smoke all day.
Could be, could be.
**** keeps thought
coming open on it
honest in a beautiful
way. Could be any
reason. Then what of
the stressed breath
exhalation, my others?
What of the imprint
apathy? I alone live in
fear, with so many
fearful near. It must be
most of us but if it's only
some, then where's the
map to you, lonely? Puff
and cough and deliver
words we want in ear at
the close of any day. I
could picture myself dying
every night, go from dance
to stand to sit, to bone from
clay to sand from grasping
in embrace with you.

This is how we go
how it goes where
it goes, why, though?
Why, though?

Could be any reason.
Could be, could be.

Having observed others and containing the self consciousness of a noticer (do other people look at me the way I look at them?) she would dress in old borrowed clothing that smelled like other peoples’ laundry and leather because secretly she wanted to wear the other people try them on and she had this wrinkle between each brow that made her look just sort of worried no matter how she tried to press and smooth that wrinkle down with her thumb and in very private moments she’d stare at her features in the mirror with a sort of curiosity because she’d been told by leering men that she was beautiful but sometimes she saw only features: Nose eyes mouth all in pretty good proportion sure but she supposed the thing that held her curiosity was not her face itself but rather the disconnect between the face and the universe of thought behind it and all this she’d marveled at a very young age as ma would see her staring at herself in front of the bathroom mirror or in store windows and tell her not to be so vain kid to hurry along
And so she feared writing about her own vulnerable beauty for fear that she might be both of those things—vulnerable and beautiful. Instead she would take an hour long train ride, fake-dozing so as not to be ticketed, walk anonymous between busy persons until she reached a place that satisfied her Washington Square park, perhaps, or some small playground on the lower east side, or down by water or the hip corner shops in Brooklyn. And there, in strangers, she would find her vulnerable beauty, and there with the aid of a pen they became her and she became them.

before
we
know
kindness
we are silly moons
a primal scream
ids
gaggle of wants
having not yet understood
our own vulnerability
and its connection to others
the agony of self
uninitiated
by the sacrifices yet to come

in effect a criminal mind

as a child growing up in brooklyn
my friends and i would
make a mad dash
out of ching-a-lings
chopsuey restaurant
after eating sumptuously
with out paying the bill
electrified with terror and excitement
at the thought of being grabbed
by a chinese boogy man
and laughing breathless
when finally
out of harms way
sadistically delighting
by the panic
we caused
as some red faced hyperventilating waiter
caved trying to catch
five little hell boys
fury fast

all adults
were filthy rich
compared to us urchins
idling in the darkness and tenements
sniffing glue
in a number 2 brown paper bag
hole in the pocket poor
slow starters
uninspired
pressing through
the dragging weight
of a barren world
not yet knowing
we too will toil endlessly
worry sick for loved ones
and quake at endless indignities
trying to eek out a living
like the waiter we robbed of his pittance
on this Sisyphean rock

our lives
stretched out before us
a white knuckle ride
between hope
and quiet desperation
struggling not to be swallowed
through pitted black holes
and fake floors
into downward mobility

our pin ball souls
like small metal *****
jarred and knocked
from one ringing bell to the next
in a turbulent game
player or not
without an inkling
of the fated
dark signature
written into our genes
by deaths hand
before
we
know
kindness