the bustle

we are separate, we are different and indifferent,
some of us blessed, some broke,
but loving, belligerent or unfeeling –
we are all the same

our bodies are all equal, all fertilizer
unshowered or covered in jewelry, make-up, cologne
carrying purses and fake personas
or funky trickster mojo with dirty clothes
we all bat our eyelashes as if
stunned at the bottom of a bank-building free-fall

the bustle,
the great, ballsy bong of downtown –
where homeless odors collide
with casino goers hubris

we are drunk on park benches in torn tennis-shoes
or tripping over our loafers on eight dollar night caps
nervous laughter and sleeping rage
work our mouths, vibrate the frames of our bodies

we don’t really know where we’re headed

and the glistening of the Terminal Tower
in red and blue
and the lights of stadiums
where little boys and little men nurse deep wounds
over chronic little losses

cannot outshine the shaky man with Bozo hair
drawing peace signs in chalk on the sidewalk on Public Square

he might tell us where we are headed,
his heart, a Universal router we cannot connect to
with our smart phones or our dumb Jonesing for
more and more human warmth
through less and less human interaction

yeah, he might tell us where we are headed

but we wouldn’t listen