substack
(p.s. drag me!!!!!)
To Syncopate
I’m
in touch with your rhythm,
and with the way
in which syncopation works. Mostly
the latter. It’s the latter
that defines my in-touch-ness
with you, that clarifies
my ability to walk (not) in step
with you. So I have these favorite clogs,
these precious gems
of a shoe. One’s heel
is minor to the other,
chipped away with wear. You know
that I shift my walk, don’t you? I skip
to your heel, I emphasize
weak beats, I lower
to your major, I heel to your heel.
And that’s just all me, because you can’t walk straight
in these darned clogs. They’re broken shoes, they’re worn.
A rotten tune. Something
unconventional, an unbalanced tread,
but a real beauty develops in the dun-dun
of a lowered step. And then,
a kind of threshold is passed,
a kind of pact made with that
which is normally quieted.
You are precious.
Sullen and under the clamor
of everything normal-sounding,
you want to be emphasized.
In a syncopated strut,
one have to align
with a speed, with a certain
self-assurance. It’s one
of assertion,
an arrogant toe-step flex, or sometimes, a drag, a flat foot
dropped straight down to pavement. But oftentimes,
it’s a lazy jaywalk, a sliding of sole against ground,
a walk that furthers the brokenness, a walk
that is for no one and nothing other than the sole purpose
of making the thing that is stepped on heard. And seen.
Known, too. It’s about scraping the sole
on the part of the ground that is not there
until it is, a lonely centimeter of ground unscathed,
wanting to be made seen, made scraped. Made here
and now, emphasized by toe-scrape. Toe-scrape
made you loud. You’re a stressed syllable
in my syncopation of broken lullaby. I’ll wear broken
as long as it’s out of fashion. I’ll wear and tear and scrape
the ground of your staff, I’ll find the tiniest,
most elucidatory notes
and step with all my might.
and with the way
in which syncopation works. Mostly
the latter. It’s the latter
that defines my in-touch-ness
with you, that clarifies
my ability to walk (not) in step
with you. So I have these favorite clogs,
these precious gems
of a shoe. One’s heel
is minor to the other,
chipped away with wear. You know
that I shift my walk, don’t you? I skip
to your heel, I emphasize
weak beats, I lower
to your major, I heel to your heel.
And that’s just all me, because you can’t walk straight
in these darned clogs. They’re broken shoes, they’re worn.
A rotten tune. Something
unconventional, an unbalanced tread,
but a real beauty develops in the dun-dun
of a lowered step. And then,
a kind of threshold is passed,
a kind of pact made with that
which is normally quieted.
You are precious.
Sullen and under the clamor
of everything normal-sounding,
you want to be emphasized.
In a syncopated strut,
one have to align
with a speed, with a certain
self-assurance. It’s one
of assertion,
an arrogant toe-step flex, or sometimes, a drag, a flat foot
dropped straight down to pavement. But oftentimes,
it’s a lazy jaywalk, a sliding of sole against ground,
a walk that furthers the brokenness, a walk
that is for no one and nothing other than the sole purpose
of making the thing that is stepped on heard. And seen.
Known, too. It’s about scraping the sole
on the part of the ground that is not there
until it is, a lonely centimeter of ground unscathed,
wanting to be made seen, made scraped. Made here
and now, emphasized by toe-scrape. Toe-scrape
made you loud. You’re a stressed syllable
in my syncopation of broken lullaby. I’ll wear broken
as long as it’s out of fashion. I’ll wear and tear and scrape
the ground of your staff, I’ll find the tiniest,
most elucidatory notes
and step with all my might.