She has no knowledge/
that she is the belle-whether/
of relationships.

During Vashon’s First Friday Art Walk, it’s not uncommon to see street musicians and artists on the city streets, busking for money from passers-by. Vashon Island has a unique, creative character (including bumperstickers that read: “Keep Vashon Poetic” and “Keep Vashon Weird”).
During the August, 2010 First Friday Art Walk, I decided Vashon would be a great place to try “improv street performance poetry”, so, tip hat, red pillow, and signs in hand, I set up on a street corner and proceeded to spend two hours busking … doing street poetry. Usually the poems started with “Because this is Vashon/I can stand on the street/and invent funny rhymes/about the people I meet.” And then I’d go on to comment about the day, what they were doing, how they were dressed, etc.
The best responses came from families with children — they seemed to laugh the loudest when my Dr. Seussian poetry “hit home”.
And someone asked me about why I stood on a red pillow. There was no reason, really, (other than to say “Here is where the poet stands”), so I thought I’d make one up!

Red pillows/
protect feet/
when improv words flow/
from my mouth/
2 the street./
Unlike rhymes from fingertips,/
noise of lips/
can thud.

She wants a tall man/
to make her butt look smaller./
Won’t my fat do that?

Thou sweet silent muse,/
who left me alone all day./
I danced with mem’ry.

Haven’t shaved in 3 days;/
not bathed in 2./

Island life/
takes getting used 2./

Now I’ll catch a ferry/
2 soon b citifide./

There I’ll b clean,/
and feel dead inside.

He’s never posted/
in her public private page./
He feels protected.

I opened up more/
than I ever had before./
Trust overcame fear.

——
10 minutes later, when I hadn’t heard back, the fear returned… and I penned this at 12:08 a.m. August 9th:

Then, with her silence,/
He thought he’d been too intense,/
wanting to take risks.

—————
By 8:50 a.m. the morning of August 9th, I still hadn’t had a response, so this was the result:

He woke the next day./
She’d had nothing, still, to say./
Will he ever learn?

It was only jeans/
in the dryer./
We think of charity/
as something higher./
But for her younger brother/
it was something other./
It was a simple deed/
filling a need.

Listen to world beat/
music. Ev’ryone’s seated./
Why’s noone dancing?

Gorgeous blonde woman/
exits the port-a-potty./
She left the seat up.