I just had a dream/
of meeting linguist Noam Chomsky/
at his parents’ bistro/Cafe’
on the shores of the Black Sea.
The problem is:/
he was born and raised in Philly.
But by his glasses I could tell:/
It was he./
Noam Chomsky,/
talking/
and walking/
with me,
as we/
took a goofy/
spectacled selfie.
This early morning,
I dreamed.
I swam with my son
and his friends in the Black Sea.
I then had a wonderful melted chocolate dessert
with a cute old couple
who had a Noam Chomsky poster,
teal, it was,
with a pink orange 4-inch paintbrush slash
in the lower left-hand corner,
hanging
in their old bistro Café.
The poster
and they
told me about Chomsky’s performance,
so I went up to the City Square.
Chomsky was performing,
reading,
and having his class read.
I became
— as is typical for me —
part of a class he taught,
where a woman couldn’t read
her poem,
written on wood in dark woodburnt letters.
So someone else read it,
and they asked me
to hit my head on the table
in front
of me “Clunk”,
saying “I could have had
a bigger apartment!”
“Clunk”.
It was a great
public
experience
I got to share.
I then walked back
toward the bistro Cafe’,
because my daughter had texted me.
As I was going back,
the ferry arrived
and emptied.
I tried crossing
in front of the traffic,
between the crosswalk bars,
and a policeman in blue and black uniform
yelled at me
and gave me a five-penny
fine.
He followed me
to the café,
where I gave him a nickel,
and the old couple helped
pay the fine
in local currency,
so I left my Jefferson head nickel
on their wooden counter.
I looked behind the counter,
and there,
in person,
was Noam Chomsky.
He was the old couple’s son!
He had to leave the bistro/Cafe’,
so I walked with him
for awhile,
and told him how wonderful
and kind
his parents were.
Then I asked
if we could take a selfie
together.
He had something wrong
with his eyes,
so he put on very thick,
dark-framed glasses.
I put on my black-framed glasses,
and the camera was upside down
and we couldn’t take the picture,
but finally we took it
and it was obvious that I was being
a pest
but I still got
the picture.
And then I went back
and found my children at the bistro/Café.
I don’t think we saw any of the city
at all
but we swam together
at night
and I played submarine
and tipped over
a large sailboat toy
like it been torpedoed …
and I didn’t even get
Noam Chomsky’s
autograph.
She sends me
Photos
Showing her beauty.
All of it.
I didn’t ask.
I actually never have.
Well, maybe sometimes.
When I was lonely.
Back in the day.
Like yesterday.
But this time,
Really,
I didn’t ask.
They just showed up.
First,
Selfies in a mini-van.
Selfies in the kitchen.
Then,
golden-lighted,
(the way bedroom lights glow)
Copper-tonedskincolors
FromherbedohmyheckthatsAMAZING
Surprise.
But not so much.
Because many do it.
Just as, I’m sure,
Many ask for it.
So it should be no shock
To anyone
That almost everyone
Probably has gotten them
Or has probably sent them
(Except the Supreme Court
Who simply passed on
The envelope
Without even looking.)
Does thinking about it
makes you sick?
Yes.
Just like it
makes me ill.
Punched in the stomach.
Kicked in the heart.
Because I and you like
to think
We are unique
And sacred
And wanted
Only.
And I and you don’t want
to imagine
That we are common
And cheap
And normal
And doing what
Almost
Everyone else does
Or has least thought about.
I feel sadillsickpunchedkicked
Especially when
I look at the pictures
And know they weren’t taken
Today
Or last night,
For just me,
But weeks or months ago
For someone else
And I am just an afterthought,
a “may as well”,
A “I wonder what he’ll think”,
A “this should surprise him.”
Being ordinary
Makes me sadillsickpunchedkicked
And cry
And hide.
In my corner,
cowering,
contemplating,
I wonder
When I get them,
“Why me?”
Do I have
“PERVERT” or “VOYEUR”
Or “TYPICAL GUY”
or “PIGDOGRUNTMEATHEAD”
Stamped across my forehead?
Does my London Fog coat
Look like I could flash it open
At any moment?
Or do I just get those photos
Because I’m a guy
And guys like that type of stuff
And guys like that are pigs
And all guys are pigs
Therefore I should be sent those photos
To prove to her and everyone else
That I’m a pig,
And that I’m not worthy of her time.
She’d never send those photos
To “him”.
He’s too straight-laced
She says,
And would probably faint
And then write her off
And dump her.
Noooo! She,
Wearing lace
collars,
Church-going,
Righteous,
Sunday School
Or women’s auxiliary
Teacher
Or holy music
Leader
On her way to minister
To the sick
And the lonely
And the depressed
And oppressed,
That’s not the her
Who she wants to be
To herself
Or anyone else
Who matters.
Especially not
To him.
She is that good person.
I see her like that.
So does everyone else.
He, especially.
So he gets mini-van selfies
And kitchen selfies
And selfies with both of them
Happy on the trail
Or at dinner
Or at sunset
Or on the beach
Or doing something wonderful.
Sweet, gentle, peaceful selfies,
Graceful,
Censored by life,
Until the time he gets to see
Everything she wants to show him
In person.
Because he is worthy
Of getting nothing now
And everything later.
While I,
Who try so hard
Not to be “that type”,
Not to be known “like THAT,”
Get unsolicited
Golden bedroom light photos
That keep filling up
My texts
And computer-file folders
And mind
With selfie smiles
I can’t forget
But won’t ever get.
She sent me
A selfie.
I gasped,
struggling hard to grasp
the beauty
of the vision laid before me.
Skin gold with Rembrandt’s light.
Mona Lisa’s smile sly with delight.
Flowing Botticelli Venus tangled hair.
Picasso’s Laughing Eyes sparkling stare.
Colors, shapes, forms and hues
Glowing, curving, warm, subdued.
A creative, introspective self-portrait.
(Nobody would expect that I’d see that.)
From the mature topic picture I was sent,
T’was not to the profane, but the artistic my mind went.
With arms extended,/
alone, she still captures her/
beauty through her phone.
It is unfair to/
post pictures of beauty. How/
can we get work done?