Tuesday, April 3, 2012

3547. ONLY THE LANDLORD'S BUCKETOF BLOOD

ONLY THE LANDLORD'S
BUCKET OF BLOOD 
(nyc, 1980)
'Hasten the way in, find the lark who meddles,
pick the lock of the infinite, show me where
you park your heart. Those are my top four
rabble-rousing, interdicting phrases. Now
learn ye the very way I preach.'
-
Out front, a '66 Chevy was low on the curb -
rumbling a candy-apple red, some glass-packed
exhaust noise, and a few tinted windows of yesterday's
glass. It isn't like that any more, just isn't the same.
-
We shook all the fruit and then cut down the tree.
I leaned over and the catapult fell, The Spanish
fellow, the distant one hosing down the walk, he
only looks about to see what girls' asses look like;
and who can blame him in this paradise, you ask?
-
'I've lived here, on seventeenth, now for three years:
nice loft, nice walk-up, little freight elevator for big
things, and plenty of friends to keep it all going.
We laugh and we somehow dance as we pray.
I paint way after midnight, and have plenty of
room to drink. Nothing ever drives me down.'
-
Purloined and profuse, all this talk is now
driving me crazy, and here comes the
landlord with his bucket of blood.

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