Myth

I wanted to feel the music of your shoulders
Watch the tension of C.D. turn to 8 track
I read your nonfiction – if that’s not a crush, what is.

You live twenty years away from Richie Havens turning up at a café.
I watch the liner notes of your wrists like a fortune teller.
Jerome Robbins choreographs your neighborhood with a pale peony.

I heard there’s a tree in Washington Square Park dripping with handcuffs and a noose.
Phil Ochs sings of the cobwebs of contradiction
   Did you ever wear sandals?
   did you hold a megaphone?
When did you start wearing cufflinks?
When’s the last time you played a Fugs song?
When’s the last time you kissed a girl who memorized Bob Dylan’s bootleg releases?
When’s the last time you used groovy as a verb?
When’s the last time you hummed a Rodgers & Hart song?
When’s the last time you went to Kim’s Video and rented Hair?

How many roads fork into most traveled?
The asphalt is pinstriped.
1/4 of the time I don’t know what decade I’m in.

I watched you watch the parade.
I’m the one who whispered in your ear “the Army/McCarthy hearings aren’t available on DVD.”
I’m in the park feeding the pigeons bread and circuses.
Come midnight, I watch Michelangelo leaning out of a helicopter – he has quite an eye for astronomy.

Every night, Lord Buckley leaves Café Wha.
Every night Walt Whitman & Allen Ginsberg fly like Chagall above your window.
One night I tagged along with my flailing trampoline.
I tried to visit you like Frank O’Hara’s sun.
You drew the blinds.
You took away my yellow.

Suddenly a confetti of tangerines fell from the sky, labeled hand picked by Icarus.
I ate till I was sticky.

Ellyn Maybe

 

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