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Voices on 39th street

sounds of voices echo through
39th street's corridors.
they warp like thoughts racking
in Van Gogh's head,
like the endless stream
of college freshman's gossip
five years ago,
the mix of image and sound
in a fleeting glance before i passed out
drunk once on a heat vent
and played Medusa.
voices on 39th street
are from a nightmare,
a trip through space, a gathering in a room
of multilingual Europeans
practicing their vocabularies
and schizophrenia. each voice saying the same
nuance, each taking me where
i wish i were still, where i wish i weren't,
and what i'd like to forge
as a list of "concerns" for a therapist
reminding me of what a genius actress
i can become.
the voices say if only i could really write.
they're like A sharp
and like my mind the time i stared at a white ceiling
in a blue room
after my loss of virginity was reported online
by a spiky- haired new found glory teenager.
whatever they say, the nightmare
is probably just sitting around the dinner table
selling crack and yelling down the street.