a historicized love of a 6 year genealogy made from maps,
i am the new owner of a blind memory caught on these streets –
jeans lost in lipstick.
smoke trails excuse themselves from the building, calling
‘the white man is a problem’ and other drags –
your words evaporate like beer foam,
these are cris-crosses named gatherings,
dressed by the movement of moss on the
pavement above a tunnel haunted by the music of shared mythologies;
the question that fingers search to answer
against the textures of a purse gone mad;
opened front doors.
this bewildering life 