I own nothing, as I stand here beneath the
Brooklyn Bridge. I am on the Brooklyn side,
in fact, and - to my side - the rounded pells
of the old tobacco warehouse, armaments of
two-hundred years ago, call to me as if today.
Ah, when a port was a port and a harbor a
harbor - the spittle of men and the piss of
the hordes, accepted everywhere.
This place tries a comeback now with
stupid people. The young couples who
saunter the clubs bereft of a reference but
slick in their style and preference. The livery
car driver - I watch - some Lebanese fucker,
is banging out his dented door on a cobbled
sidestreet near the watery shore. He seems
as angry as Hell. All this, all this, is a harbinger
of all the pity to come.
Pity to come : the Lord from the sky is an
artist with a perfect eye, sublimatingly fiendish
and something strange, a writer of necessity
in a world to change. Like an Ofil's Renoir
or someone's Piss Christ, this art of new living
seems an ultra-hip shark in its tankful of Death.