Wednesday, June 15, 2011

3148. YEAH, I CELEBRATE MYSELF?

YEAH, I CELEBRATE MYSELF?
Make no stinking rationale for where the street ends up :
willow tree sagging over the marsh, the end of the block
slimy with crud, the old metal swing set sinking in mud.
The old sanitarium, now a condo-set, makes me laugh
still every time I pass - Cherokee Arms, now it's called.
Big bunches of Puerto Ricans stabbing the park with
love; Jets and Sharks and Houseboys and Wrens.
-
I dare somehow saddle up this horse and ride, and slide -
East River metamorphose right there into me. Tugboat
pushing barge, sloop and craft, slighting, listing
pleasure boats. Two cranked girls in little white
bikinis, sunning their ass on deck. I went home,
and there was no one there. I went there, and
there was no one here. All my friends are dead
and gone. No father, no mother as well.
-
I find that I rot and stink with the rest of them all.
Laying back in the sunny grass, feet up on a railing,
watching birds and squirrels scuttle and run. I don't
care that I don't care and I don't care if I should care.
Or not. That rotten weasel apple-mazaneer, the
man with the plaid-silk hat, no I do not know him,
have never seen before. That dog he's walking,
Jeez, looks more like a cow. I smile, languid to
a fault, and celebrate. I celebrate, myself?
Them? The world around me? All.

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