Hammers the anvil to sparks,
conducts a chorus of crows.
Speaks with turntable hands like Terminator X,
schooled by scratch & break.
Wants to be Joey Ramone or Thurston Moore
on your bedroom floor.

Struts like Terspsichore in sneakers, quits ballet, studies duende,
stomps like Rumpelstiltskin.
Wails Fado songs in Lisbon’s candlelit rooms,
saudade croon.
Steals marble in Naples, carved body of Polyhymnia––

stone cold, busted.

Debuts in Threepenny Opera, by & for beggars,
strums Lady Stardust in bed.
Chants the Heart Sutra in utero––delivers us

from the rivers of our mothers.
Leads the choir at #58 World of Inquiry School,

down by the riverside.
Studies war no more, climbs cyclone fences, unfurls

soft whips, comes to blows & grips.

Originally published in White Wall Review 40 (2016)