Smithsonian

By the Smithsonian

Night clad, white clad,
spinning escaped tendrils of light
into a visibility cloak.
My daggers, one on each hip,
plunge, Earth-turning
towards the sleepy cracked crust.

Washington Sqaure Park

Pigeons and Paupers

There are very fine lines sliding amongst the crowds.
Eight paths lead in to the centre
fountain pillar. Out of all possible paths
people glide
delicately balanced against both sides of
the reading, eating, talking,
graciously unstaring bench bower.

Their eyes bounce in earnest
from just above the ear of one
to just past the shoulder of another,
playing out the necessary fiction of
seeing without watching.

As if we didn’t come for this.
To note who carries a parasol, smokes a cigar,
whose dog loses fights with squirrels.
We feign interest in the fountain,
in the passing of clouds, in a rare glimpse
of distance through tree frames.

We barricade ourselves
between arm rests
and bags, food or a book
within reach to throw up against
someone who violates
sensitive zones of silence,
slicing through an accidental glance that
bumps up against another,
preserving the pockets of calm.
We sit armed with a purpose.

Softly and evenly they move.
Intentioned, sliding streams
of people tracing their legitimate presence
along the spokes of the wheel and out again.
Only tourists, children and madmen
take undue delight.

We’re all here to pretend to be alone.

Kengsington Market

Gay punk rock
Asian guys with dreads and
skinny white girls with low-flung flares
and died black hair.

All that’s needed for nourishment:
organic ice cream,
mango hempseed banana smoothies
for all purposes, says the sign:
“Having an Affair? We Cater Too!”

and the eye-open, seat-sharing strangers
tossed up on the ragged edges of the road
smile, not asking to be entertained,
but caught up in the mirror of who we’d be
if we were born Russian, or angry, or short.

No corners meet cleanly here.
Delivery trucks and tricycles
slowly part rivers of
sun-warmed fish, incense, spilled beer
and the lilting sweep
of many tongues slipping over each other
in well-kept ignorance.

Productivity

Before I start work on Wednesday, I'll try to accomplish something that can't be summarized in a PowerPoint presentation. This is going to be a bookcase in my new favourite coffee shop and bookstore, the Ganas Book Cafe on Staten Island. Maybe it was the paint fumes, but it's easy to work when you're listening to world chants, and talking about the history of God and the intricacies of tea. The masons were smoothing concrete outside, delicately tracing lines 20 feet away with a pole in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I appreciated anyone who can make walls or draw warmth from wood. You can't count down to completion doing this work. Every stroke has to be valued for itself. The beginning and end of satisfaction is watching the colour appear from under your hand.