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Yes, You
I felt it happening as it was happening, the trumpet player wore a gun on his hip, a shot heard all over town. If you can speak Louis Armstrong, you’ll understand the fat of winter on a summer night, the burning ache of a West Virginia coalminer’s song. You’ll inhabit a degree of verve forever to be dispatched. Open the bass and sound the gravel, more than your mother’s night out. But if we gave it all away, could we make a place overseas? Picking olives is no easy day. In the supremacy of the European bourgeoisie, “everyone” had a culture— now where do we get one of our own? Even a sub-dissident with no clear cut channel to swim against should work upon her street tactics. Instead of enacting, I walk openly to the store. The bodega is beautiful for its brevity. The boon of a bodega is its camaraderie; try telling that to a banker’s daughter though. She’ll want a ski resort or a piñata club, anything but chivalry wrapped in patterns of corner store love. Now here’s the oak between splitting slabs, a push of concrete aside for a file of ants and forests of daisies to make from wind a cause. Likewise, the nearby tongues are timed ones, although the untamed step joyously out of sync. I’m on day two of the body, its remedial surfaces, a charmed night air to sound itself home with: I use these places for my own constraints and as a reminder there’s a storyteller within, if you’d only let her loose. |  |
