Sunday, January 23, 2011

2100. THIS AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT CAKE

THIS AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT CAKE
(buttonwood manor, elizabeth, NJ, 1995)
Buttonwood Manor nutcase incense
the way the morsels carry weight the
way the Mayor walks along the boulevard,
carrying a swagger, parading through
open yards and streets. I should so staccato
be and talk like a machine gun. Me!
-
Instead, in the bare, dark green room where
once the Jays and Hamiltons fought, I am
sitting down amidst fat ladies and two black
girls with transparent shirts. Not very comfortable,
any of this, for me - let alone to think of the
ghosts of old Elizabethtown past. If they
every got a load of this, they'd die all over
again. The Hell with the Revolution.
This would be it.
-
There weren't no swank hills coming up
from the swampy rivers. The rafts couldn't
make it through the reeds. Right here, right
here, Washington and his boys stayed for
a while. Now, nothing. Oil tanks, grease
in the fronds, rainbow stains on soiled
waters. Rainbow stains on water.

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