May 2nd. Time stands still, minutes hanging in trees
and from telephone poles and fluttering in distinctly
Southern breezes through the cherry blossoms.
Hear the calling, gathering, words shining down
the otherwise empty blocks and courtyards,
characteristics of a nation so far from itself,
a world where mud is valued more than gold,
Marquis is not the only governor in the boudoir,
books are written frantically, invisibly over the air
but no one reads them, their tapping the beat to the
anthem of apathy. Lost, entranced in the confusion
of the moment, staring in my living room at the Second
Going as it races across the glass in front of me, I am
reminded of the vague hours, faintly floating through
the ether of childhood. The bare mattress
on my arms and face. The long, televised awaiting.
The splash of daylight on the dust in the air.
Laughter. The misunderstanding laughter of youth,
the most painful memory of the night.
More than anything, no explanation. Not to me.
It was my first smut, my first taboo,
discovered through hazy, pornographic reports,
discussed in hushed tones, innuendo,
hidden under beds, creasing and stained,
behind models and maps, performed by way
of a hole in a wall. And now they say it ends.
How am I supposed to feel?
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