She said, “but you are from New York.”
He didn’t say anything, though his sharpie continued
to squeak: long stroke, short short/
short short again–maybe, she thought,
shading in–which brought with it
a deepening stench of acetone that he was probably not even smelling
since he usually breathed though his mouth, drawing–
short short stench stench LONG LONG–
but which she certainly smelled, only—
and now she had to be fair, it was really too sweet
to be called stench–
It was a smell in fact that made her feel almost blue
at the edges–not like the sharpie, which, this time, was a horrible
navy–but the teal of remembered nights, Fridays
when their folks would actually drive them somewhere, and
the minute they crossed the bridge her Dad would stop, her mom complain–
gasoline never the same in the City–they talked of price and lines,
but for her it was all about
exhaust–the smell of Jersey, vaporized spill and not
“So,” she said, “you can’t be from New York City and be
an outsider artist.”
“It’s just,” she clumped over to the window
since he still refused to look up, “a nonstarter,”
and the street poured in even through the couple of inches she pushed
with a sunlike-hum, a more-more roar, warming
her inner arms–
and he said (squeak squeak), “so what, if live
in New York?”
“City,” she added.
“City, he said, still staring
into the page.
“All what,” she said.
Then, slowly, he began to laugh, big,
his eyes as he stood from the steno pad throwing
green-gold flecks into the air
of all the inner drawings he could already feel
pushing against his finger tips,
and he flipped the page back as if the paper were just
one more set of his long, soft bangs, and shook each pant’s leg in its turn
as if his limbs too were part of that
pad (paper wasn’t important,
he’d been explaining for months),
“exactly,” he said–
And she, hating him who knew everything–everything he ever wanted to know
or didn’t care, said, “so?”
And he, smirking, said, “so, Watts.”
Only he said Watts not ‘what’, and she knew that was important
but not why, so kept her face blank as she could so he would not know
her not knowing–
and he said (so know-it-all)–”Watt’s Towers, to be precise, which is the absolute greatest outsider art installation ever built in this country and is what I think about all day, every day–and if that doesn’t make me an outsider artist–”
“You sleep all day,” she said.
“Same difference,” he grinned.
Yes, I know this is not a real poem! It is broken into lines, but is really prose I have just written thinking about a novel I have been working on (off and on) for a bit. I am linking it to Lolamouse’s prompt on visionary art With Real Toads. It is my 16th writing–and I’ll call it a poem for these purposes–for April, 2015 National Poetry Month. (I have a couple in progress that I may post late!)
Lolamouse posts cool pictures of visionary art from the Baltimore Museum, but I have gone with Watts Towers, by Simon Rodia, a great visionary artist, who built these very cool towers in his little yard. The picture is courtesy of LA County Museum of Art, and is supposed to be available for free use.
So sorry to be late with commenting! Good luck to all doing Napowrimo! I’ll be around!