Angelas

My soul communicated with my body, saying, "I am the real thing, not you."

The city phoned up the country to complain. "How dare you say you're more real than me?"

My radio marched into my tv room yesterday, I believe to say it was more real.

Of course, this here--this written I--holds the other one--the writing I--like a puppet.

Half the things are suing the other half the things. Infringement of ontological copyright is the charge.

Borrower is annoyed because Lender thinks he's the one driving this.

And everyone knows women are the crazy ones.

 

***

 

Out-of-the-way Places

 

These buildings here all have stairs that lead nowhere.

I remember high school. I remember going up into the theatre's fly gallery to be alone and read.

I don't ever want to see anyone I know. It's great to be in a crowd full of strangers who will never see you again.

They're far easier to part from that way.

You don't even have to say goodbye.

Sometimes I wonder how often I've seen this person or that person before. There are only so many paths in a city.

And I am afraid--so afraid--they remember me.

 

***

 

"Hey, pretty baby, what's your name?"

"Angela."

"Angela, huh? I've known my share of Angelas. All began in primary or thereabouts. She asked me to dance, I danced with her. I'll remember that forever. Then there was a waitress, I was a busboy. She was surprised I was a Tom Waits fan. Oh yeah, at Ryerson there were two Angelas. One was from Romania. I think her name was anglicized. The other one was kinda short, but she had this rack, I couldn't believe it. So, you're Angela. Well, hello, Angela."

"Thanks for taking such a keen interest in me."