Don't think twice, s'aight.

An old one from the poetry blog.

Of Myself

I celebrate the uncertainty that is myself;
Beautiful bundles of atoms, forming some whole,
some piece of a soul….searching for substance;

A sponge soaking up atmosphere…uptown, downtown, switching gears,
Picking up silence, phrases and notes,
pieces of what could be;
Pieces of music, forming the song, of someone…who could be Me.

The City air tastes like steam and nicotine,
It runs through my veins….I am in love with it.
I disappear into hordes of Monday suits, so hidden that I don’t have to hide,
so hidden that I feel undisguised,
I am mad for pedestrian contact.

The click of my heels…the passing of smog through my lungs,
The stink of the homeless on the steps of the church, and of Marlboro smoke,
fresh garbage, and hotdogs straight from the stand,
The sound of my own voice, ordering breakfast,
Bacon and egg on a roll…coffee with soy milk..perhaps Redbull…
Digestion inspires my soul…
The sound of my own silence…strutting my way to the 6 train…
A few excuse me’s…a few jabs to the stomach…side-stepping a stroller,
The effects of caffeine…the illusion of health…the song of me rising from insomnia and meeting the midday traffic.

Have you walked twenty city blocks much? Have you started a fistfight at Starbucks?
Have you practiced so long that you know how to read and walk and scoff and listen to your ipod simultaneously?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of subliminal advertising?

Jokers and talkers surround me;
People I meet on the street..stock brokers, TV personalities…disenfranchised bodies of the New York City I live in….of the nation,
The latest lies in the New York Post…celebrities, infidelities, glamorized high societies….no talk of the government conspiracies,
My delivery dinner, credit card bills, text messages, unopened emails,
The real or fancied indifference of some woman I shouldn’t love,
The whistle and the cat call of some construction worker I will never love,
The sickness of one of my friends-or of myself…or guilt…or lack of money, always
lack of money…or stock market crashes or bailouts,
They come for me through frequencies and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands the uncertainty that I am,
Stands amused, but never complacent, as long as my fingers can bend,
Looks with sidecurved head, awaiting what may come next,
Walks with wonder and courage, stands tall and puffs the chest.


Both in and out of the frenzy, watching and wondering at it;
The policeman with his star, happily delivering parking fines
The twenty-somethings, with cash to spare, waiting on Pinkberry lines
The teenager in prep school shirt, refusing to give up his bus seat,
The prostitute preaching politics on the corner of the street,
The students pack their winter bags, waving goodbye to
temporary lives,
The locals pack their bags to move, as rents continue to rise,
The genius is carried to Bellevue, at last a confirmed case
The street musician asks the silence “Who will save the human race?”
The dive bar diva dances on stage, echoing her song
The air resonates with the rhythm of souls moving along…

I witness and I wait….I believe in you, my soul,
I believe in distillation….I believe you can be whole,
I witness and I wait…Clear and sweet you will be, my soul.

I bequeath myself to the concrete;
If you want me again, I’ll be under your feet,
Or sifting like smoke through the streets;
Falling and rising….building and waiting,
Stopping on streetcorners, smoking on rooftops,
Reaching for syllables, sounds and notes,
Searching and waiting, waiting and searching
For a memory…some clarity…Hope,

Hoping that one day I will fill these holes,
and stumble upon the right notes,
Hoping that some day I’ll be singing the song
of the certainty that is myself.

I’m sitting on a bed with Cookie Monster sheets and writing memories that feel like fiction.

It’s amazing how much we can change and still have the same skin.

President Obama (via jaredgeller and poobah) (via david) (via chrishughes) (via thedeadline)