The sidewalk opens up,
you wouldn’t believe,
in the most pedestrian of moments;
a swirling confusion
with a gravity all its own
pulls on me as I am
trying to be a human,
forcing myself out of the bedroom,
imagining as if all of this is real.
When I buy into
this body, I am
winking and nudging
unwilling partners – and blushing
from the effort.
My rush for acceptance has me
shuffling off to buffalo
into the orchestra pit,
landing on the violin player
who is Asian,
and svelte,
and oh, so condescending.
Get off, I imagine.
I can’t hide enough
to feel any better –
(the reel still plays within),
but what else are we
to do when
longing stirs
– stuff it down?
That makes me hungry
for dark, espresso cake.
Should I seek a dark corner to nurse
the shame it brings to try?
Am I to step up and play it all out?
I am naked in the park –
a soft and sad animal,
toenails unpainted,
goose pimply and white fleshed –
walk by me with mild
disgust, you.
Yet years of trying to move with
the padded safety gear of
saying scripted words,
doing rote and right motions,
hiding silly mind twists behind a polite smile –
all this does me in
as well –
that is a
calloused clawing crawl
into every night’s dark pit.
I am tired of this divide
I am tired of desire and
splatting falls.
I yearn to be the perfect package
of gleaming rightness.
Who feels the sting of not being that?
Who longs and loathes?
Who stares for hours
into space,
trying to see
the finish line?
Life as Improv 