Zones – Brandon Crispin

Descend again and wake, unsure
where, why- who cares? Always gravity
always familiar strangers
only mores

Language from the nose, air from the baker
Coins struck and gold passengers driving in reverse
Payphones are alive! as is Prada and Insecurity
looming large as lives processed
Elevators, metros, tubes, taxi taxi and,
You understand nothing, but their eyes
and pleasure in frenzy

Two way street are buzzards
of lives lived day-by-heatstroke, a woman berates a child
a child berates a carrot
a man walks his lunch
a lone loaf of bread is berated
before crumbling down a hole
in a city full of walls. Next door there is a bottle of wine
three poems away from finished and the artist
asking for refills rather than reason, integrity
poise or petit pois and police
sirens from his window meaning nothing
but another festival taking shape

Here is a rotund in the middle. Six
seven winding streets waiting
to crash into themselves and you, found
on a bicycle debating the merits of breathing
crossing a bridge bordered by absolutes
ever-afters, clear inflections and
names you don’t pronounce. Another old man
playing his accordion with the same distinctive French and
your mind, somewhere sandwiched
between crepes and cigarettes lying on Parisian rooftops
surrounded by bezels, diamonds and sunlight
and,
you stop once more right before the end

For another gold coin
to throw into another beaten hat
of another boy accordion player
and hear the name of his song