At what point does jump that won’t end become flying?
Point of light / order playfully settles on the shoulder of the day
an action of rising: the day assures itself by sketching
on a page in the book of days: an artists graph--
Not To Be Trusted. Well, certain avenues of clearance are open.
Riding the bus of a morning with a dogged feeling,
of a sentiment not yet conveyed to myself the best of abilities.
Sitting forward quietly watching insurance ad copy swim
into focus on those banners they drape in the buses in now—
“A busted pipe in 4A can turn into a flooded ceiling in 3A.”
The unavoidable idea that in the city you begin
to see: ‘Mayhem,’
advanced peopling--horizontal, vertical, motorized--
makes it impossible to foresee all the shit that can drop on you
through no fault of your own, save proximity.
Then the radio cuts in with
“due to the president’s visit traffic patterns will be spontaneously
adjusted and road’s blocked off throughout the day.”
And I just start.
Trafficking in the gentler mayhems.
Being in the bus, being a boy, submits
to the vast wash of
the heart at the heart of the crocus—the roots, the weather
the vital bus—
ascending and descending
uptown and downtown
all at one and the same time.
My sweatpants are whistling.
The bus is filling.
Today all the people are real