Israel dances a half-stumble
to Jimmy’s Corner Store for cigarettes,
banging through the narrow doorway,
all of his body-music colliding with
door jambs and point of sale displays
until Jimmy
(whose real name is unknown
but is certainly not Jimmy,
Jimmy having been
the original owner of the store,
Jimmy having been gone
for fifteen years at least)
shouts at him for raising a ruckus
and insists he buy something or get out,
and after he buys
his pack of Mustangs
Israel drum-bangs his way
back to the street,
Israel strum-dings his way
back to the street,
Israel smoke-songs his way
back to the street where Israel
is lord of the dance and his name
is exalted, though it isn’t his
real name either, not the name
he was born with in his homeland.
That name is long gone
into this city’s alleys
and distances
that instead named him Israel
for no reason other than he looked
like another guy named Israel
who walked these streets before him,
who bought his cigarettes from original Jimmy,
who had his own halting music to dance to,
who is himself long forgotten
having been easily replaced
through the city’s greed
for colorful characters
to people its own delusion
that it is in fact
a promised land.
So Israel dances out,
lights up,
butt-chunks
his path, spring-strings
himself along.
So Jimmy shakes his head,
watches him go,
turns back to the counter
and the sweeping up.
So I begin to forget that I
play my part too: the bemused
observer who makes it all possible
is necessary to the play; without me
to make it into a myth,
what would it be except
just another hard town
pretending
to be a home.
Dark Matter 
February 24th, 2016 at 5:05 am
I may have met a man called Isreal once, who was not named Isreal, but I wouldn’t know that because I never asked and, instead, just watched him dance. 🙂 I really liked this, thanks for writing it, and existing and such.
February 24th, 2016 at 6:20 am
Thank you and welcome aboard…