wait, step, wait.

uploaded, digitized, remixed

the system, let’s go on to what we can’t imagine!

these callouses born of disuse, this Disease of inexperience

our children’s tongues are tables of mocking fruit, served up

as the established norm, the given.

forget it, babe, we’ll spin

on a snagging beat and you’ll toss me over your shoulderblades

this three-time catch, how I could know the steps you invented




I caught your hand on the drop.

my, my, my

replay it over, let’s hear ourselves

think, in sync,

I’ll keep pretending I can rap,

you keep pretending you can dance, and that

you’ll write me back.


I found an old notebook and in it was a torn-out piece of paper with these words:

(These are a child’s impressions of a street entertainer.)

the dancer steps forward

Hips whirling frantically

as she turns and twists.

Sweat drips from her dark brow,

her hands extended from her sides,

twisting, reaching.

The men whoop and cheer

their scraggled beards and hair


their eyes gleam hungrily

as the beer bottles clink and slosh.

The dark hair on their arms

caked with dust

that flies off in little clouds

as they reach greedy fingers at her.

She bites her lip, her eyes

look like they might burst with tears

any second

the grass skirt rustles

twisting, twirling

around her thick, curved legs

bare feet shuffle the dust.