The Magician’s Corner

I’m walking downtown

down a street swimming in suits, sewn

with nimble fingers, worn to the jointbone of resistance.

Sharp segments of time, reflecting grim faces

clipped heels snapping against ground gravel

grinding smiles into these thin lines.

Smog and sun settling densely,

a thick fog of power

sucks wry grins

uncalloused fingers clench steamy coffee cups, to-go orders

thick wrists snap, check cell phones

toned upper arms sling gym bags and briefcases

stride down the sidewalk

stride in and out of meetings

from event to pre-scheduled event, bustling

walking PTA time bombs.

A sea of excellence, power suited to dance a mean-ass techno tango.

One hand hinged around the bones of a sculpted

upper arm, the other hand smothering any excuse for why things could,

in fact, be different.

I’m an undecided lesson in ethics, posturing

in an Aikido dance with attitude and intentions, moving

towards sidestepping executive exhales of disdain,

of dissatisfaction that I’m interrupting images of perfection.

I am a human wrinkle in power-time

generating a generation of giving. O.R.G from

a dot.com handshake and deal-stealing-dot.do.your.own.dirty.work.dot.com

I’m focused on getting down the street,

swimming through the patriarch of patent leather,

when time stops in a silent spasm of shock ripples.

Inbetween glimpses, snatched

as woolen gray-blue blurs of power primp by, primly

looking forward, only forward and slightly down

            —I see him.

Sitting on the heels of a significantly held breath,

is a man perpendicular to pedestrian traffic,

a man who is directly facing me

long hair, strands of black curtains, 
cascade in stringy chunks down his face.

He’s staring at me but seeing nothing

one hand squarely crammed down the front of his pants,

the other is fanned out on his breastbone

fluttering slightly each time his tongue appears briefly between his lips .

I turn away for a moment,

then look back to make sure

he’s still there behind the traffic of people

framed in by the wall of some business or bank,

he’s got a wide berth of space around him

about as wide as the law of polite distance and resentment can give.

His face, what I can see through the curtain of black,

wears pain as broken blood vessels, little road maps

of mistaken turns and dead ends

as the hand down his pants moves faster the rest of his body seems impossibly still

Shit! Who the hell does he think he is, jacking off on a corner!

Taking up space, the space I have to walk around just to feel safe!

As I turn on my heels, stride away in a huff of stuffed up

rage and resentment, I find myself sucked back into the void

of his fluttering fingers and that damn smile on his face.

He’s staring at something behind his open eyes,

something that is still

within the parameter of space around him,

that wide berth of concrete and sidewalk

that he’s allowed, that’s what he’s got

it’s all his.

I feel a little like a voyeur staring as I continue to

stare, transfixed by those fluttering fingers, his smile,

bigger and my anger at the danger of being caught, being a voyeur

begins to reorient its self.

I find I am suddenly angry, that he’s probably more angry

than me right now, pissed off that all the hustle 

of daily life can’t just shut up for five fucking minutes

so he can get off.

He already has to wake up, sleep, shit, smile, snore, and daydream

on 9-5 time.  He has eight feet of personal space,

and I’m somehow pissed off because he’s jacking off

on a street corner

in public.

Why not be angry that people have to make walls out of necessity,

make walls out of resentful eyes and smoggy city air

why not be angry at a city,

at a city that does not provide enough space for everyone

to jack off privately.

How can I be angry with this man who’s magic

is making space out of no space

and walls out of thin air?

I’m angered at a magician for surviving

and worried about how I got there.

I’m out of place among the power

suits of gray wool and expensive perfume,

angry and disgruntled

at the sights and smells of true pain

I wonder about his anger

this man, who stands across from me,

inside his house, his castle, his soul, his mind, and his body

outside, on his street corner

his home

I wonder about my anger,

            how did I get here

            how can I come home

I want to make change.

I want us to all come home.