By Panos Panagiotopoulos
Act I
I’ve been feeling it lately;
what lies outside when I look out the window, in the attic
among the memories packed and sealed with gray duct tape,
my 90s air that I blew in thirteen jars when it went out of style,
everything in the attic is my obsolete remains, a museum of me
to wander through when I grow older and older
I’ll become.
I’ve been feeling it a lot lately,
I carry a pen and notebook like always but
when I write, I stop the passersby and ask them
-what do you think/what does it make you think/can you think of anything, man-
and they tilt their heads to the right or left as if their minds went out of balance.
The world is people with tilted heads to the right or left,
and if they line up one day they will form lanes that my words will fly through,
my words will roll through like a bowling ball down the peoples’ lane.
I remember, once upon a time it was summer,
and summer went on like a perpetual Monday.
Every dance used to mean something,
– was the sun shining brighter? –
walking out was like stepping inside a High Definition screen,
sharp colors and overexposed emotions, we danced in the street
and the radio was playing music, out loud, music in the streets
-don’t tell me that it never happened-
and we were there, we knew nothing about sirens or the future,
the future was the next moment/the future came in moments.
I remember, I tried to be cohesive in the past,
it was when I told you that we live in a perpetual rainy Monday.
It was the year whatever and the sirens used to go off at 11 sharp.
11 05 I told you, under the sirens’ din I told you
that I wanted to dissolve myself into your heartbeat,
I told you I wanted to be the next beat.
That’s the closest I ever got to cohesion,
and you tilted your head to the left or to the right and joined the
subway tribes, the skateboard kids and the
elder folk who feel confused with all these changes and so
they tilt their heads to the left or to the right, their minds go out
of balance.
The museum of me in the attic,
for when I grow older, days came by, they passed by
and then some more came after, I try,
I try to make my future come
in moments or at the very least, moments that are day-long memories,
instead of experiencing everything at 120 frames per second,
everything mashed together in a gigantic cosmic bowl,
I pull out my notebook and I hold my pen as steadily as I can on the street
as I walk I write/wondering as I write when I walk :
what happened?
So, what happened, man?
I’ve been feeling it a lot lately,
the static in the radio that makes the people tilt their heads,
the music in the radio is static and we live in a perpetual rainy Monday,
I look outside the attic and I see them/us
getting dressed for work, always late and aggressive,
if they ever form a line I’ll bowl my words
right through their tilted heads’ lane.
Act II
You know how it is sometimes,
you wake up and find yourself walking around
while you thought that you never left the bed,
it happens – to me – sometimes, every now and then,
it feels – to me – like we are the caricatures of people
who look and talk and act like us,
we are the people who are supposed to be us, you know how it is
sometimes you walk around in a loop, opening seemingly the same door,
wearing seemingly the same shoes that never look worn or walked on
at all,
I woke up today and I found myself walking around
and I thought I never left the bed this morning –
holding a twenty dollar poker chip I found within my pocket,
my fist around a chip that I found buried in my back pocket,
and it’s all I’ve got today/today the Lord provided a twenty dollar
poker chip for Lord works in mysterious ways, sometimes.
My face,
my face is tangerine,
under the morning sun my face is tangerine and I
haven’t shaved for days, my tongue wears a bitter coat of
nicotine and espresso, it’s just another one of those days
when nothing’s really moving, people swim through the street sluggishly
as if their bodies cut through cotton.
I flip a twenty dollar poker chip with my thumb,
it’s the only currency I’ve got today
and it’s good for nothing, so I
flip it with my thumb and in the air it spins, faster than the world
that moves around me/their bodies cutting through layers of cotton/it spins
and its yellow interchanging faces smile in a particular way,
as if there is something subliminal, you know, just how people smile when
there is something implied/when there is something subliminal/
reminding me of someone who said that we wake up on a perpetual rainy Monday,
she said she wanted to be the next beat on a perpetual rainy Monday,
and
everything has yesterday’s stale flavor
except for me, spinning a yellow poker chip on the street,
I’m the non-linear variety of the day, the glass that fell and crashed
and broke the silence, to someone
I am the differential feature of a yesterday that’s yet to come.
If I’m following a routine, I wouldn’t be aware,
I just do the things I feel that are necessary to escape what’s coming to me,
– I know not what is coming to me but I feel the urge to escape it –
I feel like the surfer who flees from the waves but,
I ask myself as I flip a twenty dollar poker chip,
is that my purpose really/would I flee forever/I have a choice/I have a choice/don’t I/
I wouldn’t be aware,
if I knew I was following a routine,
something that I’m supposed to do at a given time,
turn a corner and fall into the unsuspecting arms of someone,
someone who moves like cutting through cotton, open arms and a heart
beating
so efficiently,
so predictably.
Clutching at Straws 