Poems

In the beginning
I climbed trees and rocks on Washington Heights
swooned after kennyrankin
who became a rock star on AM radio……

You can tell by the grease
on the right cuff of my khaki pants
that I ride a bike.
No flat-backed speed racer I.
Just a low-slung two-baskets-over- the- rear-wheel
carry-the-groceries go-to-the-post-office
bike rider……

She talks a blue streak
a sonic bloom of indigo
racing toward the sun

I love the barrenness of your room.
No potted plants
with leaves dry and curling……

I am living outside the box
in a room with no doors and no locks
I fear no convention or misapprehension
I am living outside the box……

To survive
you must be it:
loud busy beautiful angry unrepentant……