New Jersey Blood
I.
The first
bedlam-infested Free School show:
I caught Jeremy
doing his reconnaissance routine,
ribbing audience to
leave. I didn’t realize
then who Jeremy was,
where he came from
(South Jersey),
& why he worked, in Philly,
to stay (&
remain) small. The Highwire shows
were too high for
his, & Jersey’s, leveled lowliness;
who had no recourse
but to (hostilely) spy on us.
New Jersey squirmed,
itchy for its Philly;
Jeremy slunk back,
wine in hand, began snapping
pictures again. As
he knelt to get a special
angle on Mike Land,
who stood reading at
the podium, I
remembered Avalon as a teenager,
New Jersey at
midnight— waves into emptiness.
The dirge droned
over the dimly lit dance
floor, “Stop Me If
You’ve Heard This One Before,”
& Tara, a
bowl-headed Jersey redhead, heaved
against me. Suburban
Jersey slowed her pace
like a sprained ankle;
tall tales, excuses abounded
of potential
husbands, other elaborate entanglements,
making it dodgy to
take her too seriously.
She sought ins with
us; we always said yes;
yet we bled
something out of her style & self-possession.
Mike Land, who
(oddly) was no dancer, drank
our grungy group
under the table, in a short-lived joint
off of Rittenhouse
Square— Tara made
a gesture to her
girlfriend to step outside. “It’s
a conspiracy;” I
kidded Mike, “bring on the shots.”
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