luni, 21 noiembrie 2016

the station of the real - poem

- David A. Marin
In this beyond of shreds 
of sparkling fragments 
of star dust, lies a black flying box
it's shaped like an ox
big Havana sign:
on it writes, pen like a stylish-fox:
I go in, and I see a giant, in loom
a black man, smoking a pipe, smiling with the moon
he's on one of them elderly chairs for elderly folk, 
rolling back and forth, 
and I ask of Friendship. 
He puts a hand in his 'fro, takes out his monocle 
and says, after each sentence pausing for effect:
"Young man, we're all "troubled", 
And unless you accept the other's trouble
You will be troubled alone"
He breathes deeply. 
"Do not push people away from 
or because of the troubledness 
For you, yourself, are troubled 
When we embrace the differences
Big and scary as they are 
We can connect to the hive mind
And sometimes act as one".
I thank the shrink.
(I turn to leave, he says: 
"Kid! Wait."
"Unless they're fascists." 
 He winks. 
We chuckle. )
The African-American giant hands me a funk record. 
I take a subway away, though space-time,
(not a lot of people on train at the end of this line
but there's a few, nodding, drinking tea) 
and I stop at the station of the Real. 
I hitchhike from the bathroom to the bed,


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