Chicken Little In Love

The shadow boys are …

LEWIS TURCO …

Today, green ’96 Subaru, corner of Washington & Alden—six blocks from my house—a boy punches his car horn & screams wordless from the window as if to test my fight or flight & which side of that blade I’ll topple from. I keep a list of details & locations in the back of my head. Red Honda Civic, twelve blocks. Black Grand Cherokee, half-mile. Yesterday, six drunks followed me into the subway shouting slurs. Tall blond with tribal tattoos—babyface almost-beautiful if not for the hunger—his voice the loudest, echoing against the damp cement & tile: What the fuck is that thing?  Last week, a block away from Pride, a street preacher frothed at the jowls & stuffed my hands with pamphlets describing me hell-bound, a shirtless man masturbated across from me on the red line, a commuter in pinstripes & oxfords kicked my cane from beneath my feet while passing through the fare gates. Each time, I felt lucky. It could be worse. [I know the difference between assault & battery—one violence & another—is proximity to measurable harm. This law itself another kind of violence, weapon smelted from a certain bloodline’s fear.] The week before, a stranger spat on my feet on my way to work, another stalked me through the station yelling Chick dick, chick dick, chick dick, repeating it almost as if it were a prayer. Today, I slide the dead bolt shut behind me—exhale a breath I don’t remember holding. Tomorrow, who knows? Forgive me. I cannot find the poem in all of this, but I can’t bear to let it go unspoken. I want to make this violence a stranger in my mouth. I want to make it something worth remembering. …

There are stones even here …

My ghostly fader, I me confess, …

If I were a man of Herculaneum- …

The music of your voice comes sadly on the wind tonight - …

At London in Englonde noȝt fulle longe sythen— …