Early inspiration...

Survival
the struggle is really simple
i was born
i was taught how to behave
i was shown how to accommodate-
i resist being humanized
into feelings not my own-
the struggle is really simple
i will be born
i will not be taught how to behave
i will not make my muscles vestigial
i will not digest myself

From 'Mongo Affair,' Miguel Algarin

Rhythm II.

I listen here.
By the gold dome,
on this blessed,
cracked, trashed,
overgrown pavement.
I listen here
to the solitary beat,
the beat, beat
how is this possible,
I ask myself.
How is this probable
that there would be one
discernable beat.
it grounds me. in this moment.
it's where I need to be.
I need to be here, here,
right here, I
tell myself.
I no longer listen here
for your footstep.
I am present.

Really?

I never reported it. Everyone I talk to says, "REALLY??! YOU NEED TO REPORT IT." "WHAT IF HE DOES IT AGAIN?"
I am left with a residue of shame: why didn't I report it? The attack. Because that's what it was an attack. It took the caring voice of reason of the medical assistant at my doctor's office to drive this point home. And when she shared her own story of being attacked, it made me finally cry about mine.
I respect the police. And I dread contact with that monotone, "well, ma'am, why didn't you report it on Saturday?"
Why? Why, indeed.
At work, if this happened to a client, I would quickly respond: report it, right now; I will help you. If a friend told me this, I would say report it. report it now.
So, I learn. That just because "things like this happen." Just because "he was mentally ill." "Just because it's life in the city." I deserve to tell someone.
Really.

Scents

I can't scrape these rhymes off the pavement.
I'm covered in cravings too thick to breathe through
At the sound of your voice in a text message.
I can't lose that scent
the smell of you. close.
wrap around, wrap around
these memories, these senses
overwhelm me.
And you're nowhere.
At least as far as I can see.
You're nowhere.
Not really.
Just an act, like
those plays you see
to seem erudite, uptight, in right.
You're nowhere.
As far as I can see.

of beauty

"On the girl's brown legs there were many small white scars. I was thinking, Do those scars cover the whole of you, like the stars and the moons on your dress? I thought it would be pretty too, and I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I SURVIVED." Little Bee, Chris Cleave

Pushed Down

I was reminded today, loudly reminded. This city I love has a bitterness that sometimes follows right after a delicious swallow of energy and creativity. Walking with my iPod narrating my way through crowds of people in Center City, I meandered through Independence Mall, dodging the folks trying to give me tourist brochures.
I love this city with all it's sharp edges, it's trash, it's rudeness. These are like wrinkles and scars on a wise, wise old woman, who fills me with colorful stories and culture; who brings me back in time, centuries in a moment. I love this city, even, maybe because of, it's wrinkles and callouses. This is why I made a grave mistake today and put my guard down.
I walked through a door, after purchasing bus tokens at the subway station. The man on the other side had pressed the automatic button to open the doors, so I took advantage and skirted through on one side. I found myself painfully and suddenly knocked to the ground. Looking up, feeling a sharp pain in my neck, I witnessed what I had missed. Unkempt, talking angrily and violently to himself and me, was a man I should have noticed. I realized I should have had my guard up. I missed the signs.
I love this city. This beautiful, alive, creative artist of a city. And, I am reminded. I need to use all my senses when I make my way through it.

Burning

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time. The ones who never yawn or a say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles. Jack Kerouac