On Pinata Row
At the border of
The Sequin
And Fabric districts,
There's an unholy mixing:
Blue Penguin Textiles,
The Broken Mouth Cafe,
Tipsy on the corner
Of Hemlock Street ...
But we laugh
That we're not crazy,
Or at least that when together
We can giggle madly,
To have seen the same sights
And lived the same discursive
Movies, of molls and gunsels,
Drive-by ripostes,
To their ends.
There's a film crew here now,
At the Garfield Hotel,
Waiting around on cell phones
For the action.
At times like these
Our stories seem real,
The storefronts genuine,
The pedestrians regnant
With meaning.
We talk some more,
Learning fresh what each of us
Remembers, until a casual detail
Drops as from the skies:
A kinetic display
Of naked children
Consumed by Baal
In an elevator of the Standard
Hotel.
It made the real
Something actual,
That is, retained
For more than an instant.
