A Space for Writers of the World
All glottal tics can be imitated
or so I’ve read–we’re all built
with roughly the same equipment.
Mariah Carey’s lifted whistle
careens around registers at Duane
Reade on Ludlow and Delancey. Mincing
in the air conditioning I blather on and on–
Singing is the weirdest most awe-
some human talent in the galaxy!
A bridge repeated too often becomes
pickle. I mean hiccup–a story told
into rut. Heatwaves beg crazy,
we call this fever pitch: snarling
man barges in and spits in my face.
This is the part where I should blow
bellow scream anything I have
a big mouth but. Security guard giggles.
Crowd’s shallow hush of confusion. Store
lights continue their hum. The man buys gum,
and leaves. Later, I wash my face.