where the writers are
to live on the wind

I hike up my dress and with the hem laced with one hand, I run around and around, back and forth, in circles like a dog, until I fall on the floor. I sink my nose deep in my shoulder, breathing in deep jasmine and sweat. I reach up one hand to the kitchen counter for the fruit, and then mash the strawberries and blueberries in my mouth, and they are dripping all over me. I am wild with hunger, for something.

I can not be filled.

And the whole front of me is red with strawberry blood and blue like death. I rub the juice on my breasts, and oh this excites me and my hands are everywhere and my fingers find the place I need and the strawberry-blueberry juice bubbles with my own. The one finger inside rocking myself gently, then violently, all the while holding onto the gold-flecked counter with the other hand and I am voluptuous curves and valleys, as the blueberry-strawberry finger lies very still.

~ ~ ~ ~

Homeless is place and homeless is mind and after-homeless is often homeless, still ~

"My eyes stretch to the horizon of Beaver Street and Broad. All that I was runs past the shadows of the sun-sucked ambit; I'm invisible; a product, purloined into naked along naked streets. Property of New York City. Looking back is easy for now and then looking gets muddy. Wedded to why, survival instinct becomes extinct as a phonograph's needle. In the space between Starbucks and Conway, in the drum-line beneath the music, a gone-missing woman is hardly tallied or heard from. Nothing to imagine beyond the check-cashing joint, one woman's song mute, one man's song timbaling over and over like cicadas wiggling their abdomens toward and away from young trees ~ as if to show someone his homeless state can be refashioned.

Even a rock rippling in a pond makes sound; I shut my mouth. Nothing comes out until later, way later.

There is the red brick of the John Heuss House laid into the cold gray building. There is the steeple-chase archway above the softer yet grimy Spanish portico.

I see a man coming around the bend where the sun squats orange on the pizza place and the itsy candy store. I don't know who he is or why he stares cocky at me..."