Push
from the necklace of the Yamanote-sen
into
the aorta of Shinjuku Station
to
flow like straight black hair one strand of ten thousand
one
beautiful strand of ten thousand together
combed
warm to where the night will take you without stars
the
explosive light, the percussive sound of all
we
seek to buy, to see, to eat, to say, to sing
looping
around you, bursting in your brain the air
we
share the dark air sweet and wet and stale and warm
colored
by desire given desire sought
unknown
the sharp spice that turns you to this corner
of
parrot green and cinnabar reflected off
steel,
glass, skin, and street that hungers us together
where
you can choose personas till the last train leaves
to
change your hair your clothes your mind ten thousand times
as
mother night nurses the pleasure of your choice.
--Kent
Chadwick
