Tuesday, September 24, 2013


The beauties of Manhattan weave their goddess resemblances
         through the vapor of a still afternoon
while the plaid September suits deal to try to earn their ardor
         with conjured reassurances and smiling words.
It’s the kind of a day a cat stays in the window for,
         where even the men in blue look on benignly, beatifically
as they collect by the thousands at the Waldorf Astoria
         war-zone fortified for the heads of state visiting.

Blondes beam at me behind black sunglasses
         while men try to pin their words to my lapel
but still I don’t exist, amid the chandeliers of crystal and amethyst,
         the river of mirrors, the golden gleam of pretzels in the sun,
the feeling that we’re walking through a painting in a museum as one,
        but then an Asian woman, without speaking, presses a piece of paper
to my hand: “Organ Harvest of the Falun Gong for China’s tourist trade”
         and I realize I have been alive the whole time.


Jack said...

To me, pieces like this are a main benefit of poetry. A moment becomes a small world, planted in other minds.

I like how the epiphanic jolt could be either the reminder of cruelty or the act of pamphlet-ing.

the walking man said...

Was the pamphlet looking for customers or speaking out against the practice.