—moment’s omen—

We were on a train somewhere on our way to Cal-     ifornia. Florida, Panama and the Bahamas lay   behind. Abandoned boys and girls again, the band                                                                                      of       us. We threw our votes toward the polling place,   too far away to reach… Southern arrest had set     in. We set our sights west. Sunset’s chemical sky some new recognizance, balm the omen’s notice                                                                                 might     be… Lone Coast obliquity said come hither…       Steeped insolvency, bittersweet obliquity, bend. Fit were it the end of it but not, Lone Coast arri-   vancy. Lone Coast obliquity’s behest… We had                                                                                 just     gotten started, we were barely off. A dream of outmost arrival obliged us, the asymptotic hustle it   was notwithstanding, a blessing we were bent                                                                              on, boon beyond any, Lone Coast rapprochement…     Either we stood in a line wrapped around the   world or we sat on a train headed west, IDs in                                                                               see-       thru ink… Either way we circumambulated, un-   sure which, the ballot box our Ka’ba stone, black     rock, no way to look thru or look into it, no matter                                                                                         it lay       broken or because it lay broken, come from no sky   we knew… We were scared and afraid fear meant     we knew something, scared being scared was know- ing’s omen, moment’s gnosis. The Alone lay waiting,                                                                                        the     we we were afraid   we’d be

                    •

    I knew there was no we. I knew I knew we less than we’s rumor. I knew it was a feeling from   before… I knew there was the hum it made at                                                                               least.       I snuck a peek at where the Alone were, Lone   Coast intaglio a grimace in the wind. The it of     it might only be the hum of it I saw, heard what it made me imagine I saw, an aggrieved amen we                                                                                  were     a moan away from… Why they take it away, why       they try to we were asking. A lady dressed in black stood in the aisle and started dancing. Other-   wise we sat with refugee blankets tossed over us,                                                                                   flags,       we later learned, of the possessed… Why we the   had we were asking, wanting more to think of an     earlier life, some lifted sense, something said get- ting out of a car when we were nineteen… So it                                                                                was     and so it went… So we said and saw it come true… Dispossession got hold of us, possessed us,   got us happy, Lone Coast abandon woven into                                                                                the     blankets we wore… Now it was a bus we were on, going backwards, no matter we sat in front. Where   was the ballot box we were asking, where did they                                                                                     put it… We soon saw the way, the fey design of it, away     from Lone Coast while on it, none of us know-   ing where, none of us knowing when. We were in                                                                                     the     aisle now, the lady in black our leader. Lone Coast islander, she intimated come hither, gave the air a   bump with her hips and gave it a grind. Give it all a                                                                                        don’t-     care damn we took her   to mean

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She was the moment’s woman, frustration’s main     squeeze. Given to paradox, don’t-care damn   we gave it up to, all of us only there not knowing                                                                                    why         she made us admit… She took it from jook to     flamenco before we could blink. Back stiff, head       and chin high, heels hammers, face rationing   pride and duress… Eyes elsewhere, her hands bore                                                                                       mu-         dras, a sign from the east it seemed. Don’t-care     damn a danced indifference, dance don’t-care’s                                                                                   ta-   ’wil

                    •

  Heels hit the floor, we’d had enough. The lady     in black’s heels hit and ours followed. Heels hit the floor on the bus that had been a train,                                                                           the     bus that again was a train when our heels hit… A Websterian growl went up as they hit,   cante jondo’s friend. A breathy reed squawk                                                                           be-     hind each of us, a kundalini blacksnake moan…       A buttress it seemed it was in back of us. Gravel- ly strafe Camarón would’ve blown had he blown   a horn… Thus it was we spoke of clowns and                                                                              kings,     each of us conducting our lone apocalypse. “Na- ture Boy,” before we knew it, was on the box   that wasn’t there. Instead, we spoke with our                                                                             feet… An early joy relived in a dream came next. Lone     Coast reconnaissance. Dreamt-of entelechy.                                                                              Hint-     ed what arrival might be

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            (slogan)

    What it was was dance was a weapon for the weaponless, would-be some would’ve said. It   wasn’t some “next level” stuff, we’d have                                                                       none         of it, a way of being away that brought out     in was all it was, frown-line amenity a wrinkle in       the wind, noses up as though we took offense…   What it was was we did take offense, ballot-box                                                                                  ab-         scondity afoot, no one would not have. Deep     song dance’s hauteur was no shuffle. All heel was                                                                                      what       it was, all     stomp