No One Blesses Weirdoes
No-one blesses weirdoes—
the curly-haired 21
going on teenagedom
swatting invisible attack-flies
at the end of the coffee counter.
A sweaty, nose-blowing stranger
sits studying Latin and
sneezing his unarmed soul free
in the sticky, caffeine-laced,
conditioned retail air
of bookstores everywhere
(among trendier readers with no
gesundheit to spare).
My friend Nicoletta-Big-Tetas
(as she introduced herself just once),
whose wisdom is mortar and brick
graffitied and pitted and climbing higher
with every hit and chip
and slathering of Latina hips,
reassured me accidentally with a casual offering—
"I think you can reinvent yourself every time you meet someone."
Tomorrow—
If I wear that white linen camisa
comfortably (un)buttoned for the equator,
I'll be that certain boy
who treads water reverently in the Galapagos
amidst a spinning gyre of crested penguins
and black obsidian boulders
that sift the currents carbon-clear blue;
the Renaissance man who when abroad
gets sex wax in the mail from thoughtful friends
and is doodling new architectural trends
on a cotton-paper pad (even as I write this
on speckled café napkins).
I'll have to meet someone new,
and introduce myself, mysteriously reticent
and graceful and affable,
and off-hand mention surfing and arches.
Be exotically charming.
Then blow it all into the sugary air
and thank you
for your blessing.
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