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.
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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