An Honest Signal

The green light
that Mr. John Legend
sang about while
the
pale ghost
of Mr. John Denver was
revving his chainsaw—
down feathers!—burns here in
this hurt-your-mind neighborhood
in the form of
a traffic device.
It bids young ninjas,
students of the male gaze,
cowled and erect,
"Go as fast
as you can
and break your neck."
I pass hooded figures,
hungry ghosts with distended
status symbols, hands
on crotch ("Muh dick"),
thriller, and here is
piss running down the side
of a Hope-filtered mural
saying
we need a chocolate city,
or maybe "you need a chocolate bar."
Rows of identical cinder blocks—
motion dazzle for
pink-haired gentrifiers—are etched blurry
into my peripherals;
this is an endless savannah.
Shuffling from a stoop
perks ears up
and it's then, through the mysticism [*whistles*] of
a shared language [finna, finna]
that I [hips, shorty] realize
they're finna
fixin-
going to uhh,
(eyes dart,
scry open businesses,
my kingdom for a balding security guard!)
well, the basics of it
boils down (up?)
to a Hawk-Dove
and here is me,
performing as "contested resource",
while there's a Nashing/baring of teeth.
I begin stotting—
an honest signal—
and kick off the ground,
for a moment feeling only the weight
of my marked identity,
but certainly not
anything imposed
by Earth's gravity.
I land shuddering
(an Intifada, I think
because Gaza somethings,
although it's more like
this nearby rottweiler,
leashless in violation of city ordinance,
shaking off ticks) and cast away are my
inhibitions.
So begins my kata—
ichi, ni, san, shi—
a kind of sparring with no visible targets,
or at least no contact with
visible threats,
[vocalization that might be "KI-YA!"].
Truth is
I fight ghosts,
rotating fists into spectral guts,
knife hand blocking to disarm
spectral switchblades
bought from spectral pawn shops
illegal in spectral New York State:
they fall, but I scream,
a strange reversal
because
"spirit world."
In a moment of synaesthesia,
I taste the wuxia genre.
Peanut butter and jelly
grilled,
artisan bread
$7.50.
Backflips for effect,
this is CrossFit x Conservatory
(fuck yes I'm coopting breakdance).
As faces turn shades of confused
[touched] I meditate on [bitch]
one leg [mentally retarded] to
demonstrate the full power
of honed calf muscles.
Center.
Balance.
Exhale.
Eyes closed.
Meter burn for the special—My punches
find, to my surprise, tangible flesh {HEAVY}.
Faceless father figure or some amalgam of him
and me {HEAVY} DRAWN WITH HEAVY LINES, and (this is the part of the technique where
I reverse blood flow) ... every 92 seconds, 1 out of every 6 {HEAVY}, etcetera ...
my face is either bleeding, or very teary.—and it's all finished.
Eyes open;
This is an empty savannah.
I walk home
uneventfully.