Listening to Grace Jones by Alex Matraxia

Listening to Grace Jones

Walking down the street, listening to Grace Jones. If her voice is in my head right now, if it’s in rhythm, with my own walk, then am I Grace Jones? Do I have grace? Am I Grace Jones? Or what? The leaves are dying as it is now that time of year when they die quietly and attractively, dark red and curling up. They do this slowly, no rhythm. They don’t know who they are. Maybe they don’t want to. Good for them. But I can’t be so complicit. That’ s the trouble. I can’t conspire against myself like the leaves.

So I keep walking, no rain, just a breeze, listening to Hurricane, feeling famous even though it’s fake, making a big fuss about walking, like an amateurwalker. Not trying to be clever, trying to make a lot out of nothing. Absolute nothing. It’ s full of good stuff, full of bright burning leaves, full of moods breaking

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apart and out of their shells, their tiny heads. The roads are full of tiny heads. I think maybe I’ve seen a face or two before. This is a clean season, autumn, full of the smell of burning. Do I have any Grace at all?

Alex Matraxia

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