Bricky

So now I've escaped to a debonair encampment. Less hungry than meal-jealous, I've come around flocks of hoodlums and bearing-down. Broadway is a kind street lifting glad notion of what we make possible: I planted that median in the center with grass for you. Automatic sprinkler. Being too dangerous to indulge my bodied presence, I have to skirt and peck around the edges of monuments. That's ok, the way we always corrected it, shifting one leg on the bus toward the truss. I'm families and unlived organs inside me. I'm parading hands over everything one sees but can't reach. I'm a little disgruntled with a coffee in one hand and an over-wrought leer. I'm Cambridge one moment, then I'm not. We could throw around zip codes and define our territories: here, you try it. I have taken your zip code which was in the poem, and which you were probably proud to have stored up all winter against the effete opponents of that new legislation. The rise of the anarchists in June blooms! Like a limpet held to a rock, I stay to what moves me, though it curves around in dramatic curlicues and suburban you-don't-give-a-shit. A man walked across the bridge, and picked up my dropped pen. It becomes too gaunt a reprisal to live within. To thank the owners of real-estate in their teal buildings downton -- I'm running out of underwear. Protagonists are unlike phantom bellydancers, I think we've established that by now. Teach me about lust and what repeats I've missed. Calm me down earlier than stores close in Cambridge-town. Buttoned-up and stealing away, you think it's "our thing." The lights collide in the distant town for you. Oh, the cornices organize to bring down structures in your honor.