avant garde

Written for Creative Writing II - I like this immensely, perhaps because it is very true.


it was on Garth Road
while signaling passing cars with my hi-beams
that I thought of it.
every gesture, touch, and moment
is a pale recreation of every first
I have known.
this pattern alters only with
a conquest of new experiences
new, tactile tingling at the edges of my fingertips.

take, for instance
the time we were going to run away
to Vermont
and start a two person hippie commune
(with hammocks and a pack of dogs,
the kind you can run naked with).
that was a first time.

I’ve been taking lessons, too
on the finer points of temple
getting busy
at being tragic with Hebrew.
one day I might get over my distain
for organized religion: new indeed.

I want so badly to believe
that there is truth, that love is real
and I want life in every word
to the extent that it is absurd.
seven months of singing along with
the postal service
has brought me four confessions,
three kisses,
and one small smile. music, it seems
can do that too.

I am halfway down 21 curves
(her headlights blinding in the mirror)
skidding around curve number 12
my bare foot slides, pushes down
slips
catches the brake and pumps
in a fraction of a second, a microcosm.
I lead; she follows,
all looks new at night.

late and hurried and breaking promises,
I am home and working
(every time we say goodbye is harder:
that has always been the same)
seeing new things.
double helixes play on my white blinds
light dances next to my eyelashes
palms up
I don’t sleep.