from south carolina, harlem really, street fighter, paddle tennis champion, her younger years spent competing, and surviving a violent father, that story, the one where abuse makes humanity stronger, while most wither away, not to say her name is like serena or venus, fame swallowed by racist history, they let her play, but pretended she wasn’t really there, regardless, althea gibson with the volley, the lob, the slice backhand, the victory
wasn’t what i thought, i thought it was you slamming into me, me slamming into you, but that wasn’t it at all. it was a river, the current pulsating with human motion, spontaneous stage diving, swaying of limbs, giving into the chaotic whole, bodies tributed to the thumping drumbeat, electric guitar, ska/punk vocals. and those who knew, went with the flow, those who didn’t, they got moshed.
her curfew midnight, i sprinted the summer streets of madrid. by metro and taxi, she, an hour away, then an hour back across the capital city. 16 years old, when i could run and sweat, 94 degrees dripping down my cheeks. it didn’t matter, because i always stood by the open window of the metro train, hot air drying everything except the pounding blood in my chest, and i hardly knew it, but this was love. arriving, eyes aglow, to stroll on an ancient moorish pathway, share a morsel of ice cream. 12am, taxi, underground train, back to carabanchel, the far reaches of madrileńo civilization. never a second thought that i would do it all over the next night.
translucent brown bubbles, how else to describe, perhaps dark caramel, better image of sweetness, and this is just the surface, have a coke and a smile, coke is it, i’d like to buy the world a coke, and on and on, streaming backwards in time, all the ads, commercials, inducements to imbibe this drink, that the chileans cursed, leche de los yankees, yankee milk, and to think it will wash away even the saltiest of buttered popcorn, attract yellowjackets like no other, this beverage, this legend, white script on a red can, on a bottle, tingles on tongue, blamed for cavities, craved over pepsi, coffee, or sprite, hated and loved, this never-ending all-american delight.
Summer asphalt, I feel it against my cheek, warm with embarrassment and sun’s absorption, after toe snags into pothole and I tumble face first into the road’s crosswalk. This, while holding two Slurpees in July, neither spills, miracle of frozen blue sugar ice. Honking cars and trucks applaud, recognizing my brief journey from sky to ground, entertainment while waiting for red to turn to green. I rise slowly, take a small bow, try to grin, clutch the drinks and walk again.
The screen reaper has taken all the books away. The ones we used to read by the fireplace, or on the rug, or in bed, or underneath a tree. The screen reaper doesn’t care about your memories or narrative works assembled on page after page, plots, characters, all those stories shaped in your head. No, instead it offers the everything/nothing, of videos, tv shows, movies, colorful clothes draped on dancing bodies, never-ending updates, snap maps, instagram images, and tiktok temptations. The screen reaper wants it all, all of you, your eyes, brain, mind, and time.
And most of us never fight back, we open the computer, clutch the clicker, scroll with our very own fingers, authors of our demise. The screen reaper has taken all the books away, and yet we let it stay, perhaps forever, it will be this way.
Does everyone dislike the airport? Or, am I alone staring at Dunkin’ signs with glazed eyes wondering if this what we all want, Starbucks and the Potbelly Sandwich Shop, slurping a Diet Coke, while glancing at an iPhone screen. I suppose this is it, the pinnacle of humanity, to be able to listen to Little Red Corvette on a loudspeaker, while gnawing on a “free” Quaker Chewy granola bar, waiting to board a delayed JetBlue flight.
Daniel W. Polk 