OK, so we have city.
We have danger.
We have weather.
This is called "Safe Passage."
"Three weeks of rain, four weeks, five--
they say we come from the sea, carry certain depths
wherever we go.
What light is available doesn't reach us.
Seven weeks of rain, eight weeks, nine--
life this deep is dark and slow.
You hardly know now who you are.
Then week ten, the kind of twilight so warm and clear,
you're almost inclined not to trust it.
The kind of weather that keeps you walking and walking
because walking is a pleasure again.
Late night, late night, the street corner hustler's song
to sell you a transfer on the local line.
I've always wondered, does the demand ever meet the supply?
And who is it supplies the supply?
Moon in its baby fingernail phase, the dark side
still discernible.
Keep walking.
Don't break stride.
When someone says to someone, you goddamn piss me off,
and you keep on doing it, reminds me of who used to say,
I look forward to knowing you the rest of my life.
Well, fare forward, ultimate stranger, and farewell.
Late night, late night, and who was it
just said, I think about calling you every day,
but doesn't call at all?
Who was it?
I mean, beyond the face, beyond the voice and the name.
A dirigible, cold white, drifts over the skyline,
turns slowly toward the neighborhood,
like a shark that has picked up the scent of blood,
but is taking its time.
Warning signal, on, off on, off.
And who is it does call me every day?
I mean, beyond the voice, beyond the name and the face.
Pastel sweaters and a chain link fence,
old jackets for sale, shoes abandoned for a better life,
ghost clothes waiting for the body that will save them
from their suspended animation, then blocks later,
the same clothes on a different fence,
and look, the same moon, the same blimp,
the same incantation, aimed at the same passers by,
late night, late night, late motherfucking night.
In a parked car, someone says to someone, oh,
and I suppose you're so virtuous?
The night is duplicating itself as if it means to last.
I reach for the bus pass tucked in the deep pocket
of my old jacket and find it, instead, the sea
stone, small, smooth, dark, the night's hidden enduring heart,
the sea stone that someone--
who was it-- gave me years ago for good luck."
Are you tired?
Do you want to stand up?
Do you want to do some aerobics?
No?
Anybody want to play a game of basketball,
pick up, a little pick up basketball?
B-ball?
No?
OK.
I'm trying to give you options.
Any requests?
"Born to Run" maybe?
No?
Is there anything you want?
OK.
More poetry.
OK.
What's that?
More poetry.
All right, can do.