manic

I'm plotting,
I'm planning,
I'm designing,
I'm dancing
I'm breathing,
I'm diving
I'm changing,
I'm thriving,
I'm quick and I'm agile
I slip through the night
Without a whisper
like starlings in flight.

I'm sketching ideas - and
fleshing out bones
I'm coloring the air
and making a home.

I'll shape
I'll contort
I'll create
and I'll change

I'll be free, I'll be just
I'll be strong
I'll be strange

I won't slip
I won't slumber
I won't cry
I won't fall

I'll do what I do
and outrun them all:
Those fears that don't stop
don't fail and don't fade
thick like a river
that's too deep to wade.

Real Person with Cat

The air is still warm on this august evening. Walking through the city, I skim past the rhododendrons and the freshly cut lilac stumps, a smashed “honest tea” bottle lingering on the sidewalk and an old man in rolled up khakis pushing a shopping cart. I like to record these sights, for they are insignificant and fleeting, perhaps noticed only by me. Couples hold hands, strolling across the painted stripes of crosswalk, beckoned by a blinking hand. I know the corners of these streets by now, although they are still unfamiliar. I know which doorway the curly-haired homeless man sits, eyes forever vacant.

It feels as though I am the only one alive, walking these streets – but perhaps I am the only one unconscious. I am still half asleep as I retrace my route back to the apartment, a paper bag of freshly-ground coffee nestled in the crook of my arm. For a weekend, 7:00 p.m. is the real waking time – I feel strange and distant, as though on the cusp of something different. Perhaps I am about to meet someone new and exotic, and forget all of my present happiness for a future of uncertainty.

There is the clack of skateboards in the street when I get home, and the sliver of a crescent moon in the light sky. I sit on the porch and eat my dinner, green beans, garlic bread, and potato salad, feeling more like a voyeur than someone enjoying the outdoors. The viola player is silent tonight; perhaps it is dinner time for her too. The thing I like best – and perhaps dislike the most about this new apartment – is the ability to people-watch. It startles me a bit that they have the right walk by, to live here, to see me: they are not trespassers. All of them belong here; the teenage skaters, the moms pushing strollers, the bald bicyclist, and the girl with buds in her ears who picked three flowers out of the garden this afternoon. Here is a man with shorts and loafers, an orange shirt and matching orange man-purse. Even from here I can see his open mouth as he listens to the phone at his ear. I know the passersby can see me too, through my illuminated windows, but they hardly ever look up. I imagine that if one did, he might wave, to acknowledge my existence. But I will most likely stay a ghost.