JUDAS MACABEE
ON THE
BRIDGE
I hammered home the point, just myself, walking along
the Brooklyn Bridge. Over the East River, trying hard to
look down, to watch some 1920's barge and ferry traffic
when once it did exist. All I got was static, the fat
and
muscular static of today : waddlers walking fast,
joggers
jogging past, lissome ladies scantily clad pretending no
one sees. The traffic of some fitful cars kept humming.
The distant vista was really of nothing now at all. How
much infernal business can one take? Religion and
phone companies and cops and their kin? My God,
there more left out than in - and it never used to
be that way. There was a time when the angry
ones growled and the mad poets paced. When
the famous and writerly criminal crowd were but
artists and poets and scribblers and cranks.
All that stuff is gone today : like a broken-in-two
candle that can no longer be lit, like a jailer who's
lost his only key, like a nun praising Jesus with a
cross up her cunt, like a fiery madam begging for
me. I'm as lost as the next man; wanting nothing,
but yet hoping it's all still free.
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