[…]


rex leonowicz



if we don’t tell someone,       don’t tell the poem even,

that we were here, no one can ever know;

the bodies of bars, parks, bookstores, apartments

destructed    limbs loaded on trucks to the landfill;

no record     of the exchange between one unseen

lover and the next—the glance up to the moon

so entire from a street-corner in astoria

that prompted the statement “falling in love

with you”    just as we were—two people

a community, laden with history, lineage

of quietness, shame, brimstone, violence against us    past

and present,      we held latticed in our bodies like many

unblood family had, who loved before     and keep loving

residually in this space    though the landmarks are gone.

keep hurting     residually   though the landmarks

are gone.        ancestry made up of moments

dissolving in real time;        here today,  gone… already.

we learn home is a place we have to hold

internally because it will likely be invisible if we tried

to visit it.

i don’t need anyone to share   my concern

about everything always changing, dis-

appearance, maybe     i am typical    taurus

after all, fear of drastic

differences   in the ways we can be ourselves

in public      in private     based on

who we   socially located    are; but no,

not typical because i want everything

            to change, also.  i’m not loyal

to this structure,  to the shape of this present:

                     blow it up and start over.

bye-bye body, bye-bye private, bye-bye building, bye-bye public.

but i know it isn’t that simple—you can’t

readily explode an idea, or abstract notion of

who deserves and who doesn’t. what weapon

can deconstruct principle, a vision that isn’t
working?

anyway, i don’t need   anyone   to share

my concern, but it concerns me   when anyone

doesn’t.

sometimes i don’t    care, i am just

a person walking trying to get some place,

not expecting the interruption of angry

white man staring me down in the mission
staring

me down   in the bart station staring

me down   in muni car #2,  san francisco   isn’t

different, it’s the same    white guy, the same

vision, same stimulus (me),   different city: bay

area, new york    asheville, new york     new york,

new york etc.   same difference   he’s afraid of, though

i assure you, it’s NO  BIG DEAL, i’m just trying to

go   to the bathroom, to take a shower at the gym, it’s ok, i promise

it’s not   an emergency,          we don’t need an ambulance:

just a person   trying    to get someplace—like you,

not at all   like you     i am full of rage   for you,

as you are     full of rage   for me,   and yet

i hate knowing you have hurts too;   empathy

is the string that ties me to you and the ambivalence,

too.     you can’t feel it, you are too busy     thinking

about yourself,  the place inside you

threatened by a vision of change,     does this make us

the same?     no.     i will never understand where

you’re coming from    and you can’t figure out where

i’m headed:   public transitory    body  just passing

as a location of constant questions.




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