the Tango space is a cautious one for me, now. for many reasons.
sometimes I feel as though it is a series of scenes from Waking Life, and not only because Glover Gill scored the soundtrack.
I have disjointed conversations in between disjointed dances,
tango tango vals tango tango milonga.
TTVTTM they say,
Every since I met L, I have wanted to read his poetry. Poetry books are stacked everywhere in his apartment. I am hesitant to post this here because this is his, and it is for an Intended audience. but as this place has been a collection of notes that explode with inspiration for me, I am putting it here for safekeeping and contemplation.
Preparing to Cabaceo, by L. Kwan
I am taller than most parked cars in my neighborhood
whose city blocks take
about two thoughts to stride across.
The amount of time I avoid a stranger’s eye contact
comes close to four steps,
then I peer up again to inspect the bungalows and cottages
dressed in leaves of ivy, glassy from too much light.
though often the coastal fog has nightly crept beneath the bridge
and driven attractive, young people indoors.
We are all average and the men roughly weigh
within twenty pounds of each other which is comforting.
Music is playing for one half of the room
to watch the other half dance.
The women lose themselves among talk of other women
because what is beautiful remains a debate in this era
of recession, while the young men busy themselves with side-stares
as their beards grow hoary and their drink glasses
empty beneath broad-hazy grins.
The syrupy air in these rooms smells of medicine and sometimes
nobody is looking to be healed,
causing a reluctant abandonment into the cold.
Outside the stars have come out
with the primitive force of prophecy, bones strewn about.
I breathe quieter than half the population
as I continue over the crest of Dolores towards home.
Thinking of one thing at a time before each red light enlarges in my vision,
I keep a good pace by myself.
Every so often a young woman also stops at the crosswalk
and leans her frame on the roughness of the lamppost.
I am smoother than most stones against her hand.