SPEAK WITH CERTAINTY
OF THINGS YOU KNOW
NOTHING ABOUT
I cantilevered the rainbow at 7-11.
I threw down the guns at Wawa.
The train kept leaving, and it
never arrived and some David
Bowie guy with mountain-wild
eyes addressed the waiting crowd
with his saliva. Somehow even
the Poetry Editor of The New Yorker,
old what's-his-name Muldoon, showed
up to play. Sackcloth in a library, and a
fondness for Yellow Moon. What is that
anyway but a name for newly-centric
forms of vodka, beer and well-tanked
wine? (The only vintage around here
worth saving has been already saved -
the guy with the saliva said that - and
the nicely-settled aardvark Ethan, he
ought to know the time at least).
-
Once before boarding the train I took
the elevator to the 4th floor to see Kristy.
And there she was and I should know;
in a tan shirt with eyes to match. I caught
on immediately that she wasn't looking
for me. All that closing the telephone call
'love ya' stuff, like girls wasting time in an
office while talking to a husband at Plato's
Retreat. All that vague and unknowing patter.
-
But, no matter. The moon falls to the horizon
and no one's counting any longer. So we sat
on the train and talked. The husband, she said,
being Danish, was always down about something -
all that long, darkness and nighttime stuff, 'like
growing up in a cardboard box' she said he says.
And then 'the only thing that gets him off is sex,
yeah, really.' I worried about that only later on
my own and lonely way home. 'And I myself,'
she further mentioned, 'kind'a hate it all, so I
suck a lot of dick.' Yeah, right, just like that;
I got where and was going, and got off, exiting
this (only now somewhat) aimless train.
-
It's like that at the Frick Collection too, as I
think of it now. The outdoor courtyard, where
sit the people who don't mind sweating, and
the ones indoors, clutching their tumblers
and drinks, who must, as they say, have
their air 'conditioned.' With me, it's either
way; I can take it from the bottom,
I can take it from the top.
OF THINGS YOU KNOW
NOTHING ABOUT
I cantilevered the rainbow at 7-11.
I threw down the guns at Wawa.
The train kept leaving, and it
never arrived and some David
Bowie guy with mountain-wild
eyes addressed the waiting crowd
with his saliva. Somehow even
the Poetry Editor of The New Yorker,
old what's-his-name Muldoon, showed
up to play. Sackcloth in a library, and a
fondness for Yellow Moon. What is that
anyway but a name for newly-centric
forms of vodka, beer and well-tanked
wine? (The only vintage around here
worth saving has been already saved -
the guy with the saliva said that - and
the nicely-settled aardvark Ethan, he
ought to know the time at least).
-
Once before boarding the train I took
the elevator to the 4th floor to see Kristy.
And there she was and I should know;
in a tan shirt with eyes to match. I caught
on immediately that she wasn't looking
for me. All that closing the telephone call
'love ya' stuff, like girls wasting time in an
office while talking to a husband at Plato's
Retreat. All that vague and unknowing patter.
-
But, no matter. The moon falls to the horizon
and no one's counting any longer. So we sat
on the train and talked. The husband, she said,
being Danish, was always down about something -
all that long, darkness and nighttime stuff, 'like
growing up in a cardboard box' she said he says.
And then 'the only thing that gets him off is sex,
yeah, really.' I worried about that only later on
my own and lonely way home. 'And I myself,'
she further mentioned, 'kind'a hate it all, so I
suck a lot of dick.' Yeah, right, just like that;
I got where and was going, and got off, exiting
this (only now somewhat) aimless train.
-
It's like that at the Frick Collection too, as I
think of it now. The outdoor courtyard, where
sit the people who don't mind sweating, and
the ones indoors, clutching their tumblers
and drinks, who must, as they say, have
their air 'conditioned.' With me, it's either
way; I can take it from the bottom,
I can take it from the top.
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