colored lights

can we go
down through the dark streets
of chinatown or silverlake
where indie ins look down on us
from balconies, crumbling,
with strands of colored lights?
do I know enough to hold your hand?
I have read enough books to take a stand
in conversations deep,
so can we go and see
moving art and innovation?
tiny, nervous installations
of wings and keys and hair
all cut so crookedly that
old locks won’t turn
and bangs are in our faces.
You will start to tell a story
and I will know the end –
will you then give in?
and buy tamales with me, from a sweet, street vendor-man?
for this is an installation
this collage of locked-up bikes;
my eyes are too large
and my expression is too bright.
will you squirm at my absorption
adoration, lack of ennui?
does it matter to your friends
that my hair is blond and curly?
I spill out over edges
splashing into your bowl of soup;
pay attention, do.