3155. THIS IS MY JUMBLE AND I AM THE ONE

THIS IS MY JUMBLE

AND I AM THE ONE
Nothing like this : ruminate the floy, calculate
the chaos, bring home the source. The Mayflies,
long gone now, are dead as well. Listen - there,
the tinkling of that churchyard bell on the hillside,
it means another 7am Mass is being run. Some
cadaverous lecher of a priest, and his two altar boys
caking the magnificent for a few elderly women sunk
down in the pews. This goes on forever, all the detritus
of a lower world. I resign myself to nothing more.
-
Sink me down, just as well, in the cases of
mis-chanced fury I've witnessed here. The 7th
Street flowerings, the two cops beating a hoodlum
senseless, the pretty girls twirling their rainbows
on the Washington Street pavement, hollow horrors
filling their veins. I remember seeing Rudy Grillo,
just before he died, like a heroin ghost leaning on
Death's fence. He wanted to see, but could no longer
focus. It was just like the end of the world, for him,
and for me. Now it's all nothing but some Dalmation
story being told over and over and more. Jack and Jill
went up the hill and Jill, it seemed, came tumbling down.
-
I lost the story, I lost the honor, I lost my broken
arm, I lost my daughter. How far should any of
this carry? I look at those old pictures, all so well
and all so bright. I want to be somewhere else,
and then I realize, alas, I probably already am.
This is my jumble, and I am the one.