Australians come in hoards with fishing poles on their backs.
One trouble with matted motion, the engulfing stench of saliva
& yellowed butts. With a brick between the frame & door
the German filmmaker goes out for a smoke.
I had joined him. He & his crew were on the attack
of the financial crisis; a subject that bores
me greatly. Seldom I am as strong as my tongue.
Often do both my lips conspire to make young.
Although silence is lean here on Bank St.,
you will not get robbed,
but on the wretched weekends when 27 is open
you may just get mobbed
by the collegiate flash, crumbling out of the cheese bus
from the foreign West of Broad.
Bringing terrible & bright scenes, once a western theme.
I walk swiftly inside (I believe I’ve moved on from Henri)
lower the volume of the TV, & read in a hush
my funny bearded man & his Dreams.
My Weapon One:
T-minus ten. It can wait, then, run it over again,
my reservations. Housekeeping please report
too tall towers of linens by the pound, bleach by the quart.
My elbow an invaluable tool—smells of fragrant rain
(that can be gotten rid of). Pa, predicting each stop on the train
in my young years, when no problem was the insurmountable sort.
Lately the work run into itself, sux, but what else can be said—
The urge largely there, still, to leave it all.
Remember, I still have not written Paul.
Most projects, dreams, remaining small. In one, art was dead
and Shin tried to cram between me & beb in bed.
Everything else was beyond recall
which is why I find little peace in dreams.
Arriving greasy & untucked in the late hour, curled in a ball.
Settling into another color of sweater, frayed seams,
tough brown boots to weather the brunt of fall.
Out again on the sparse 95, my nightly course.
Now in my twenty-third year, nearing twenty-fourth.
Yes, yes, thought Quinn, as he examined the cheque.
She held her long instrument and played like a wreck.
Did he drink, think? In that room? Such is his weeping & wailing
which could not be translated. It makes no difference, his failing
to listen, old stories, poems, the objectives
that litter his list. He’d like to be a detective
actually, that might be fun, thinking on his feet.
Eight out of ten people in costume on the streets
of Manhattan. It was drizzling. Where he had seen
a mummy smoking a cigar, and asked him for directions.
Pointing a wrapped finger, Grand ahead, at the intersection.
Thank you, have a happy Halloween.
That was two years ago, he thought, later concluded
on that cold bus with Antoinette, the vocalist.
Repeating lights on the turnpike.
Back in touch with the city & my ghoulish self
raising a limp glass to good health.
Say I’ll try but I won’t like.
O should I go & must I go, praise at the big bar
where he felt as if in some suburban zoo,
with ripe animals pondering his exotic dance.
Asking his studies, off mark guesses by a car,
smoke from a rette-cigar. Chairs blocking the loo.
I suppose to have fun one must take a chance.
Saw a well-known poet walk home, said my hi’s,
got my formal invite. I was on the toke & cup,
again, in the car, with my beb, to whom he also said hi,
gave me a slip of something, exchanged goodbyes.
I’ve only this new york trilogy to disrupt
the constant zones I fall into, black tires sigh
all night in the new frost, freezing into the sad shape
of a dropped donut. But that did not deter beb
from walking to buy a hoagie & double-sided tape.
On the way home feeling pity for myself
pinched in the strands of sun, my sleeping leg,
while a great wind carries me wherever.
Two layers. It’s warm.
I’ll pretend nothing glorious is going on.
Armful of the biggest load, back near gone.
Should I purchase the boots? I ask Sean.
Sucking on the remaining pretzel
out of my teeth—-
squeak the stairwell door,
the cold body quiet again
finding a shirt among the sheets.
Phone startled my big ol’ throat, which is sore
from smoking & the weather
made it that much more.
I am doing what I do best; wait.
for the sun to rise
for the phone to ring
for the sheets to dry
for the omnipresent visitor
for those wunnerful boots of leather.
Where is my American Spring?
Black screen revolution? Henri wishes he had him some.
Cut me off at the plane of my peace
where Henri, wobbling, falls into one of his five books.
Wrapped only in the blue of his flag, his thing.
The hypermarket is in flames
he stammered to himself, pulling at his leash
Henri will not be a part of it, despite the backlash.
There is no longer inspiration from J.B., all he speaks
of is an Irish sky this, that-that. He just smoke & sat.
Covered in the memories of his pop,
who with a pistol did just that.
Go on, see what I am insisting with these streams,
the poet & his work an island, white love like a drink.
From the first song where one hid the day
well, I’ve only those few hours to think,
spilling, gathering himself up at the seams
watching the nation slink, away.
