ManicWorld Magazine

there is something disturbingly honest
about living in another city
wondering why
create measures to gauge the seriousness
of fragile moments
strung together
by no more than the present notion of life

another moment
now
no longer the one of just before
so I turn my attention to the rap boys
on the corner playing their music
and I dance
here on a corner in Paris
I dance

the rap boys of a dozen races give me a wave
laugh amongst themselves
cheer me on a bit
and whether it’s because they like me
or think I’m an old fool
alone
on a city sidewalk
doesn’t matter
because their acknowledgement of me
and that mixed up moment just gone
that they saw too
means something real
no matter what

other people hanging around
still staring
wondering what the encore will be
stuck in their tracks and pulling me down
with a group denunciation of my behavior
from just before

and as I babble jumbled words at them
and give a scream for maximum effect
they begin to shuffle back in fear
to their footpath to follow
thinking that if I completely fly off the handle
in the next burst
they might all be totally fucked