Of the spinning wheels—trés vite and straight from the States of the United to Montréal City. Of the heavy traffic—bumper to bumper—and us, look at us, full to the brim, a clown car of activists, caravan of aerialists, and suddenly I pull my black hat down lower over my forehead, telling each of you which lines are yours to sing, wanting it all so badly to lead into the poem— turning up Footloose, snapping back the door handles to escape like Smurfs into the congested highway —and this takes us nowhere, egotism of drawing attention, egotism of dwelling on those swaying hips—between stopped cars— but this is it, this is where we dance the good little dancing, I mean some excellent shaking—will you make it meaningful in the end? Will you make out with me? For the moment will you hold the wheel—I’m taking my sweater off and the stars seem so agitated up there trembling in their deep space and that is just the sort of dramatic gesture we’ve come to expect from the stars and one after another our sweaters are cast off. The traffic starting to move again, the drivers left with the unsettling ache of knowing they have teeth inside their tender mouths—strangeness of the body, and of living—through them the breath of words. I think. Je pense. I believe. Je crois. I feel. Je sens. The neck and the shoulders. Le visage. I never thought I had power to hurt anybody. I can barely make sense. But why else would I coerce the entire universe into bowing before my imagination, bestowing a corny nickname on each of us. You’re Mama and I’m La Bamba—let’s cover the world with our America, yeah let’s take it with us to the Jazz Festival—where all of us—my Papa, my Painter, my Smurfette—my friends all of us my friends made wreaths of our foolishness and I made a nice wreath I wear it around my face all night, the prayer for you to touch me. Symphatique, symphatique. This is nice. It feels good. You want to hear something else, something sophisticated in French but I’m far too young to know what it is you want. I know only one phrase. It tells us when the music moves you will hold my hand and eat from my hand—it tells me the whole bright blue night is a crown. So here is my stupid, unstoppable tongue. If you misunderstand, you misunderstand.
Matt Jasper says
I love the feel and form and playfulness of this poem. Fine work!