poetry in motion field trip

On our search for the best

classroom ever built

Darryl and I break

from Juilliard's four walls

and slow our strolls to sheepshed

meadow in central park

west hugged

by fences closed

since winter.

Skyscrapers loom

in the near distance.

Fortunate fucks.

We arrive

as the gates open.

Sun starved

actors dash

through gates,

the races of my childhood,

dropping their bags and cares

in the meadow's ample

lap, polluting

the clorophyll ocean

with their most perfect

joy. Boys will be

boys throw off

their shirts as the women lament

the sweet double standard.

Auden carves stories

into her pink moleskin.

Half clothed boys assemble

a game of touch

empty evian bottle

their pigskin. Tyrien

pirouettes. The Sisters

and I speak

on Azania,

Black people's land.

We be cliches so

unique. Danielle

hat is

not quite

church

but holier

than cathedral

bells. My tongue is

a bell, ringing in a full

elevator, it's door closing,

closing. We sit

on the dew and stew

haiku. Lamenting

new friends from old towns.

Mark's red shoes singing

of parsley. The rusty man

hole sleeping yards

away face up

like the dead.

Its haiku

crouches under my skin

my skin my

skin my skin

high off the sun's

vitamin

E smear.