Hopscotch

Post Moles reading/performance

First of all let's not forget Fatima performing Nina Simone.
Let's not forget the voice as the most beautiful musical instrument.
Let's not forget sturdily-structured architecture from Jacob's 1860s.
Or chair rearrangements.

There was a fabric'd mousy woman who talked about electricity.
And another Jen who knew Futurism and other nonplus activities.
There was a hatred in the air toward personal experience isolation.

Kim and Frank were there, smiles sincere, they lightened our lives.
What it means to be from Philadelphia and engage in dialogue.
What it means to talk about Invisibility and radical daughters.

Jeff talked about the elevator and Tower of Terror perf-romps.
Rattled. Three bulldogs. Hounds moving along the windstreets
with a white slaver and their slouched faces acting beauty.

We saw hopscotch on Master Street in duct tape.
The storm was coming in according to Carlos's wife.
Underneath the El there was the El Bar and an old shimmed building.

He took my dollar and we talked about Chile, Copenhagen, and Spain.

We road home and I, encouraged, talked about vaginal bleeding
and Sammy being raped by three guys: there was Lil Walter too
and the Dome knowing seizures and knows it's giving us seizures too.

We fire cruise missiles at things we don't understand.

Only one thought of suicide this evening; do babes bring
malefaction? Or is it the empty beer cans rested with
digital audio recorders that remind me of pints of water?

I sit here in my ink-stained glasses, shirt, and remember We.
We should transform ourselves into Raiders and seek shelter.