LASH OUT AT THE
GENERALS
(Satori, the end of
desire)
When it seems like nothing wants to work, like nothing
wants to go, I walk away and start backwards my rambly
trek. Along Tillary Street, buildings tarry and seem to wait
-
great, arched legworks of bridge and cable, high in the
air,
to be seen but only between other buildings - like
some
sneaky, secret eye, ever-watchful and present. A distant
water vista beckons, but - it seems -
only diners scurry
to and fro, Rive Cafe this, River Cafe that, and I am oh
so
tired of all that I see. What use, this awesome life?
-
Beneath a sidewalk tree, I see a wine bottle, broken off
at the bottom, blunted, like a glass-weapon ready to
throw
its shards aloft. It was not there yesterday, this I
know - so
only to assume some drunken midnight reveler has thrown
it
down, like so many other things. The one, black leather glove,
the woman's panties somehow hanging from a tree. What
goes
on these drunken nights? Things I never see? It really does
seem
that nothing wants to work, or, at the least, work as it
should.
-
Brooklyn, all night, beneath those crazy awnings and the
barrel-fisted buildings beneath the two sublimes :
bridges
on ahead, over-top, soaring and gorging where once the
ferries stopped and all their Whitman dotage ambled.
I know now I'll have nothing of it - this stupid,
bloated,
modern day, the couch store with its leathers, the book
store soiled with its sex, the clothing that only fey
watchmen
would ever wear. I pass on everything. I pass, and
wonder
why I'm here: not for the momentary drizzle of this cold
and so disgusting rain. Not to seek some Hart Crane
blunder chasing men and all their gain. Remember,
as I've told you, I want for nothing, and never
will.
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