You pursue the poetry of play
now that the watermelon of science
has been cut into and sampled
on every street corner and avenue.
Back in the discursive day
when you could run into a bookstore
you didn’t know was there in
a city you thought you knew
You were a cat on purposeful stray
seeking the chic and the unawares
only to avoid most of it for
the connected and well-thought-through.
Back between Bateson and Chomsky
between thinking macro and critically
running between the river and the ward
you were crazy about the new blues.
You were a walker walking thin soled
a straddler straddling propositions
oppositionally applying sharp grafitti
to both the palm and back of the hand.
Back before the stars were occluded
before night took on such a blue glow
back when the day was divvied up over
meat and potatoes you disputed the true
and obvious hitherto on the fly
allowed to bulldoze down the highway
fueled by fuel precious and loud
as over-cooked as Mulligan stew.
Back when what Dad used to say
Mom agreed with and repeated
back when the way off the farm was thinking
you were veering off of bumping into
fences put up and walls well-placed
to keep your senses on your face when
opinion was a premium and the only
knowing was a store-bought point of view.
Back when the fissures in the geology
of culture were covered up and locked down
you were formed by that broken moment
cried out for and long overdue.
Now that looking back may be done
between the improvised and the homespun
the days are long with rude comment
and short with openings gone askew.