Thursday, October 25, 2012


In the year 1831, we went westward
with nearly but an axe and a pike
tethered by wishes. The circumference
of all our dreams was broader than
Ohio. We passed that spot long ago.
Now, the manic natives have us
pressed; scouting around our wagons,
these savages have taken my wife
and kin, unexpectedly. I am leaving
this note in case I am gone, or dead,
when you get here to see.


I am sitting in William Blake's
chair. But why? Strangely and
singly, people talk at me as if I
care. This British land is running
on, and I am patched in memory
from some other place  -  to try
and make my system work, make
my land have minor moments.  Those
illuminated books seem all I'm tracking.
'Tyger, tyger, burning bright'  -  this is,
pen in hand, written with a cocktail of
famished ink. The land is dry,
and howling like a dog.


And now, and how. All this
shitty stuff again. They've made
and changed my paper, turned it
inside out, marked it for destruction
now  -  little I can do. I can hardly breath.


The marshall mask of the face
bears every telltale mark : eyes
and nose, I am seeing you - and
things like that talk sex to me.
There's no real way avoiding 
what I see; it all comes back
in an instant. I am not a man 
to avoid the deep dark of the 
past; just look at the tracing,
and you will see. I relish the
shadows and depth. I linger,
perhaps but a moment too long,
just to look back at your fine
shadow, moving along now, 
and passing from my sight.

3945. TRAVEL

(leave me angry)
I denigrate nothing so much as
the moment that passes: We
weakly wave goodbye as
breathing takes our path. At
Baltimore's leafy Leakin Park,
I looked around me once to see
an empty lake; those men had
taken all the water. And, now,
she is standing near me, black
hair streaming, and I am in
the lake  -  but am I dreaming?
Once, while taking to the stage, I
saw a klieg light burning; nothing
much went on  -  all those smoke
and mirror things together. Blue notes
were beaming, the piano stood alone.
I fostered every entry, from Rosemont
to Federal Hill. I was nowhere, though
my ghost was in every detail.
Suffer me smothered to die.
Take me to Philadelphia. Put
me in Laurel Hill  -  and then,
whatever you do, leave me
angry and walk away.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012


Lift it and flip, ram it hard,
turn and slam. That's only 
three, and I don't care
about the rest. These three
will do. I am happy to be
the doing doing this to you.
See the Laplander hold his
rifle  -  that one, over here.
It too will have to do  -  all
those native lands seems to 
count for nothing anyway.


Here, where I am standing alone, I am chained to
the wall. I seek no solace; all this is as disgusting
as can be. Yet, I stay  -  for there is no other way.
My own shoes were long ago taken away; I stand
in fetid water all day, cold and lifeless, both me
and it. I will soon be dead, there are no two ways
about that; my head reeks, my lungs pound from
congestion, the slimy cold has entered my system,
and I shudder. Was I sentenced to this, or just to Death,
and what's the difference anyway? Five years in chains,
it's all the same. I have a friend or two in the rats which
scurry around. I'm fed by wart-hog-faced jailers with always
a leer and a grimace. I ask for a preacher, they send me
a rabid dog, snapping at me and howling. What's the use?
The two men I killed, at least they were dead in ten minutes
and with the justice of a cause. This, this is all useless dying,
a mute vessel going to Hell, a sign in the dark that nobody reads.


Taking the season rightly in stride, I am
walking through leaves as they fall. Everything
follows that same progression : the passage
through time as if blind. Love and luck, together,
have no handle by which to hold on. I am running
this gantlet together with all those I know. There's
another magnet to draw me, but I will not acquiesce
as it leads me astray : foundation, meticulous spray,
the sight of green awnings still open on a wild yellow
house, the water that never stops leaking from the hose.
Why all this matters now, I really cannot say. It's a day
in the bright light, a day in the shadows, one after another,
and all those things (I may have said) amount to, really,
so very little at all. I am taking this season rightly in
stride, walking along, and checking my stride.


It was a windswept carpet of a night as we trounced up
Broadway. A long-distance goal would have been Lincoln
Center, had we been asked. As it were, our elongated
bodies fought the wind past scores of luggage stores,
lingerie wholesalers and stationery and office suppliers.
The occasional Afghan jewelry distributor added color to
an otherwise bleak night. Street-signs and traffic lights
distorted the pleasure of the walk as we ambled forth
unknown. At about the time I spied a yellowing bookstore
at a bend in the street, just then, the sinister carriage came
around the curve, with three figures within. Starting out,
they directly entered the brownstone before which they
had stopped. The tophats were odd, their gait was important,
and the long, black capes they wore seemed of another age.
A thin, white light went on in the vestibule, while outside their
black horse whinnied; a token perhaps of its loneliness
or edge. Quickly, the three entered the house. I heard
them ask for 'Mr. David Zimmerman.'
I have never felt as much out of time as that day. I have
never felt more a lone stranger that at that moment, when,
on a broad and darkened street, I sensed everything I knew
to be drifting away. There was a not-so-old mother, in a
thin house dress, at the other window, holding cloth and
slowly weaving her body in and out of time - to a tune,
perhaps, that only she was hearing. There was a
disembodied bird, its floating blue jay head and neck,
crown and eyes, hovering directly in front of me. As
it alit onto my arm, it regained its entire body. The
two side eyes were than added to by a larger,
central eye with one hooded lid.
I felt to talk to someone, remembering I wasn't alone.
Turning in the clutter of this odd reality, I saw instead
that I was alone; singularly enchanted, I decided to
rest. The coal-dark night of this lethal city had bested
me, had worked on my mind. Some monument to
Columbus was beckoning me. I verily hesitated to go.
I was holding the shoes of Edward Villella -
(I thought to be lost in the snow).

Monday, October 22, 2012


Every little thing has jet lag - and too many
second moments have long lost their validity.
It's all frozen mule meat running on. Beneath
a night sky : Belinda I am seeing you.
Two fat ladies are window shopping; but
what will they do with the glass when they
buy it? (I want to ask : such specious questions
are my task). Creatures without names are
digging holes in the ground. People talk
out of turn. Everything comes back to 
where it began. No longer do we have
a heart, and I have commingled blood
and life-story in a single, massive heave.
Sadly, the trees are felled as I await so
little. The air has the jism of psychotic
flesh. I pomade the pastures where, long
before, the cow and the farmer flourished,
or tried. Walk on, time, and I have lost
all living : now all things have died.


This bleak December, make my cloth
of gold and weave only angels into my
seams. Please, I ask this. My hands
are so tired, and they have lost all direction,
as I cannot even think what to command of
them. Let me take down the pleasure pilot,
lower the gas flame, and walk away sullenly
brooding. Only this once, I can claim, have I
managed now to beat salvation at its very
own game. I have become a hardened
hammer in the sin of this world. You
have sewn my flag  -  I hold it now,
unfurled. This bleak December,
make my cloth of gold (and
I will not be cold).


The to-be brother the one with no keys, the fiery
hand-holder, the marshall herding things back:
that there's the guy I want to know; the one
person with any neck to hang from.
There she is, she sits in red : I knew her
when and even then it was crystal clear
she'd already been to Paradise and here.
We played cards with death, this guy
and I. He lost, I won, we parted ways,
he disappeared. She came around, with
some violent ways. I saw through her
every stitch and, in spite of everything
else, loved her like she was mine.
Now, the sky switches places, and
it turns around. There's no justice
coming, in this one horse town.
(The one's long gone, that man
with no keys  -  he took what was
coming, and left me with these).

Friday, October 19, 2012


Eventually they do -  the sightlines
mingling all light and intention. Do
me right by this one  -  put your
sculptures where they may go.
Open that door, let the light
flood this room : I have to
mingle though, no  -  such
forced entanglement is just
sickening to me. I have the
carriages and the badges to 
show, but nothing for people
at all. Radishes in the Chow 
Mein? I assume, if at all,
that you're kidding.

3936. LET ME BE

All this pining for things doesn't
work : over the flag at the Ferry
House the taxman has hung now
his orange sign so simply and
succinctly stating - 'closed for
failure to pay.' Too bad, really;
there's so much more to say.
A history of men and their glasses
and knives and napkins. All those
fair women, dandy to dine, and it's
1954. 'When the color goes out of
your face like that, I swear you
look dead'  -  that gray and ashen
profile, pumping nothing back.
Verisimilitude. How I love the world.
I want really to never leave at all.


Moussorsky, modest never means shy.
Watch that poor man's feet; on high the
nerves shake and the body withers and
snaps. The natural association of pure
despoilation, one thing all together as the
rank and file trundle in. Fancy chaos,
and a plain old death  :  I am in my
waning peak of time, and yet shoulder
your responsibility. A blue collar vestige
of things that matter no longer yet
remains for me to pass through.
There is, really, not anything
left to say, and I've had a
good time at this hanging.


There are places, I assure you, where
April really follows May, where fruit
unripens on the vine, and clowns
bring sadness to the masses : a land
where all things are breaking out,
loose and wild. It is the land of
Sin(e); not the one you know,
but another one entire.
There is no trespass here - you
may do whatever it is you please;
just decide to choose, decide to
buck your wagon and change key. 
Run all those limits to the chamber
you select. The light will be leaving
just as soon as it gets here.
 Men are talking stocks again : all
their lame scenarios of margin calls
and turnover gain. Simple men are
simple men, and will so always be;
the learned Rabbi speaks at the tomb, 
the monied writer has his hour at Library
Station. The fat lady talks of Australia anew.
Oh God, I want to sleep and we are
falsely taking of a hundred things. You
know you know nothing about anything
you know, and health is not the key
to your happiness at all.

Thursday, October 18, 2012


['You're trying to affect my 
longevity, Stevie. I will have 
my juiced alliance with the sun, 
forevermore : the style of all
my things remains unchanged.
Tophat, coat and collar - and
the famous Dame over in the
corner, that's her third cigarette
in a row. 'I do not Belzar, just
do not like him  -  I don't know
what it is.' The black fellow wearing
the big apron (what is this, the South
again?), he's carrying a tray of winding
foods. 'Come back again, those little
loaves are good!' The guy was telling
me, just now, be bought a brand new
Lincoln but he doesn't like it one tiny
bit. I took these mints to the opera  -
they're surprisingly good, and they
don't make a sound.']


No, they are Gods, and those are
their names, while Sippar was their
place and Ishtar was Shamash's
sister. The Angels here have cords,
and they measure all the Earth - its
righteous ones, and those who are
not. Be ye wary then, of all of what
you are doing or about to do.


Ride the rough road Sally,
come through to the other side.
Enter laughing then exit leaving.
There are bread crumbs on this
table which we leave for the little
birdies. Any time you want you can
see them at the feeder. Life has a
fatal rhythm all its own  -  it's lovely
and nice and then it's not. Ride the
rough road, Sally, to exit out the
other side. Love, salvation.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012


(read fast)
I am not alone will not be by myself have
entered this place at a very torrid pace.
Those big lamps over the entrance are 
swinging but I do not like the way they 
look : the fake veneer of a Victorian crook,
Like some ghost of Fagin in a tale by Charles
Dickens. So much for that, I'll just walk
away. I want to blow this big library up.
I want to take people and carry them 
away in my hearfelt whirlwind - a biblical
means means of somehow achieving a
Life by a Death  -  I'll never know.
Give me a piece of bread, throw me
some coins, throw me some fishes, most
anything to make this time go by. In a
better fashion. In a cleaner mode. In
a way of perdition that will 
lighten my load.


In a dark light, I have run all this
course before. I know the turns 
and angles, each being what they
may. The man with the corkscrew 
haircut is busy lighting a match, or
trying, in the wind. What goes out
is that which will not go on. One
blatant fissure, a crack between
two halves of an overrun life.
Near to him, I watch the girl in
a shoulder-coat; she smiles, turns,
and seems to bless the air with her
presence. An angry cab-driver is
yelling back: 'no smoke in here; no 
smoke in here!'. The guy throws it
all on the ground and they enter the
squalling cab. Drive away, oh please,
drive away, or be my Jennifer Jones.

Monday, October 15, 2012


To a man seeking to wander the desert a
hundred years blind and parched, immune
to suffering but filled as much with sorrow as
grief, little things scratch  -  the bug under
toe, the beetle that hangs on a native's
eyelid, the caked brown something on
the mouthpiece of that last canteen.
Oh, never again. Not homeward, but
bound instead for a silence lachrymose.
The sort of tears a Jesus would cry from
his pores; a sweat red, like blood, and a
putrid spittle, foaming and rank like old
vomit. I know all of those things, yes,
having been here a very long time.
Not yet a hundred years, but long
enough anyway that it's no longer,
no longer by any means, sublime.
So hold your religion, and stop all
your crying. I have been here by
choice, and the penance is mine.


This fodder keeps me drunk, sedated,
and stupid as any Neil Sedaka could be.
Don't take your love away from me,
remember that twaddle?
I fall down, only to smack my forehead on
the lacquered table-top before me. One
red welt later, and I'm still singing the blues.
Give another pinch of that booze.
Here, I lit the match that burned my
finger that lit the napkin that torched my
beard that burned my face that scarred
my skin. What the fuck? If there's any
more of that, count me in.


My newest tongue, Mary O'Boyle, is
driving for you. At the rubble'd heap your mother
calls home, I see you peering from behind smoky
and torn curtains. Look at me, look at me, sweet
rascal, for I am calling out to you. Behind us, that
damned slag-heap, the peat burning, the spreading
and incessant smoke burning my eyes, it
all comes down to this one moment : Oh
how I want you now! Come out!
I cry like a singing cat for you, in heat and
wailing. I'll rub my rump on a fencepost if you
wish, I twist and turn in any exuberant fashion.
This dimming evening light, already gone and
now already early, throbs away November
like the headache you reek in my own sorry
heart. Where am I, if not with you? If you
are not here, why continue to do?
Come out, come out, oh Mary O'Boyle.
Your mother can wait - her and her toil.


When silence was in order, I spoke.
When company was needed, I left
you alone. As nightfall arrived, I
arose, and when daylight broke,
only then I slept. When water ran,
I was not thirsty; when storm clouds
thundered with rain, I had no shelter.
When lightning struck, I saw the world
as dark. When it was cold, I had warmth,
and when it was hot, I froze.
These are the dissemblings of a madman;
a monster turned heretic, a doyen of death.
If I turn on you quickly, it is because of
the knife in my hand. If I whisper, slowly,
it is so as to make my noise.
When you were empty, I was filled.
When you were barren, I was rich.
Whenever you won, I lost. When
you grew happy, I floundered in both
sadness and sorrow. I do not know
the endings of these things - only
do I speak to clouds and sky. If you
are of God, show me. If you are
nothing, then go away.
I seek the energy of the birds and
the seas. I am dead tired with trying.

Friday, October 12, 2012

3924. SIMPLE

Manufactured sentiment loses
every facet of being right by
aligning the heart with the mind.
Sensibly, we should know this,
at all times. But it does not always
happen this way. People talk of
children having pure and wholesome
outlooks which they should emulate.
No, that's not true at all  - it's a 
manufactured tale itself, of a
goodness false and barren.


The scratch of the lantern on an old
barn board : like reading Robert Frost
in the dead New Hampshire night.
Shadows abound, nothing moves.
Why and how have I come to this,
I do not know, will never know. I
just accept  -  the wavering forms on
the barnside wall, the task of that
chicken pecking its ground, the
dim memory of years back, when 
the abandoned truck in the weeds
was yet running. If Heaven can wait
for perfection, for the needle of things
to be threaded and ready, I cannot.
Dismay sets in, the doubting moon tries
hiding behind clouds, the night overtakes
just everything else. If Heaven can wait,
I then cannot. I must take care of grace 
myself, for these moments of
goodness will never last.

Thursday, October 11, 2012


Along the water's edge,
the sacks are open; sand
and red dirt spilling out. A
few people, in canoes or 
rowboats, languidly steer
about, making ripples
on such lazy water.


Mongolian hordes, riflemen on the
Borodinian steppes. All Central Asia
like a rifle recoils. How it happens,
no one knows - but the most simple
words re-kindle revolution. I wasn't
born this way, and there are so
very many strange things yet
yet for me to announce:
I can really cause harm by my thought;
time pulls its thread, steadily, through
all situations, and no matter where
we go it always  been there first,
either 'just before us', or
some time ago.
A spirit, an angel, or even a man,
traveling through space at the
speed of light, you understand,
would be unable to see his reflection
in a mirror he held, if he held a mirror.
But why would he? Let me refute:
There exists a cul de sac of Reality
into which we are all shelved  -  seeking
Eden, seeking Hell, seeking selves. It
amounts to mere twinklings and glimmers
of things, really nothing at all - Conestoga
settlers pushing an envelope over new 
western plains which exist only in their 
minds. Time has beat them there. They 
can see nothing at all, but their envelope 
of what's real includes it, so they think
they see. Poor Mankind, they
have outrun their time.


(Best in School)
The words fall easy, passed and
sorted, but they just keep gushing
out. Watch eyes, I say, watch eyes : 
they don't need words to see with, 
and they can see so much. I am running
on, with a certain pleasure principal
at work. It is my moment to take
stock of a distinct reflection in
a distant painting's mirror.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

3919. UNSURE

I am unsure of everything else, but know I
have shouldered my own pure weight  -  like
gold in a medal: obvious, but not of true value.
I can stand tall; all those generals and killers
and soldiers and statesman have nothing on 
me. This life, this life is but a line of moment,
a lemon to take for the drippings. My list,
which I am still reading, comes form far 
away; many of its objects are not Earth
things, and so many I can still not find.
Purloined and taken from me, all else.
I do not mind the moment or the matter.
Like fat Burgermeisters eating their
beefsteaks at a bar, things swell and
rise with laughter, and then subside.
I value only that which has no value.
Everything else, it will surely seem,
so quickly fade and pass away.
Yes, I am still unsure.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

3918. DON'T BE

Some papers found on a wetted doorstop, 
were they meant for me? Just like some ,
calaboose, they were stapled in the corner,
double-spaced, all arrayed neatly. Had
some crazy man left me this tale? I
tried reading  -  much too long of 
little interest : a medieval alchemist,
and man named Einstein with a
peculiar German accent; two other
characters named Jeremiah and
Rock. No way I could get even
interested in this. Why was it here?
'Post-Apocalyptic Life In Chaos' -
no kidding at all, that was the title.


 'I am so tickled pink with your desire, you
truly make me blush.' And no more words
being said, desire was satisfied. I sat there,
gently twirling a leveled straw  -  all those
nasty drinks were emptied, the room was
thinning out. It had been five hours since
one fake name atop the other was so
registered here, with the friendly
desk-clerk. Can you ever
imagine that?


Power comes like trouble shooting, highlands
over level water  -  the five-lane bridge here
supports nothing at all. I watch the swirling
something fly  -  eagle, hawk, or distant tern.
What do I know of birds? Hugging watery
sides, the uplands bear their fir trees tightly.
These are them thar' hills, of old Vermont,
of Hampshire's killing ways. The single road
here takes me high, roaming through a steepened
hillside cavernous and nasty-bleak with rock.
Oh I sing the words victorious while I am
driving so alone. Up high, a'yonder pealing,
there's a cabin in the sky; that's where I'm
stealing, and that's where my fates will lie.

Monday, October 8, 2012


Shamed by circumstance, some men struggle
to survive, while others to perform will strive.
Those lights, deep and long, in the caverns,
they yet - nonetheless - shine. All men are
God-like; it's all mankind. That hallowed
way will, I know, move me along. There are 
no forces better than that, nothing more strong.
The soul man is flipping cards. He dances
while yet singing; does his magic play upon
the stage as jittery as some spastic moron
shaking hands. Everyone bows down for
this stuff : a pope, a manager, the titular
head of some nasty foreign land.
When God returns, I know a million men
who'll want to beam it live, broadcast for
the millions and more. It's all so stupid when
you think about it, and all been done before.
There's no corner of the world it wouldn't 
reach, but there's no sense worrying that now.
Once, visiting Paris was all the rage : scaling
philosophy with talkers of rage, drinking deep
coffee at outdoor cafes. People would sit, 
drinking their Campari and just comparing notes.
Then, one fine, elastic day, the last phone rang
and took it all away. Someone answered, and
the vast, unending cosmos started talking back.
Shamed anew, by circumstance, some men
struggle while others dance. This world
is a very powerful place.


I have only to figure your hellish bent to be
beyond myself and calling : names for things
and things for names, and the unheavy lisp of
trading hearts and minds. The thin tremble of
an evening sky, seen so wide and over the river,
screams of a new yellow light. I have not seen
these things before : your all-esteemed vagrancy
and wild use of words, the leer of love as it peels
from your lips, and those stiletto heels with which I
see you plodding through time. I dream I am dreaming,
and you are standing across from me, skipping lightly
by the pool's blue water - pure pleasure on your face.


Joan of Arc had her reasons : those ramparts to
be broached, all that crazy language and song,
the flames that pierced a soul. If I were her keeper,
I probably would have gone first. Now, there are
nothing but remnants; that story re-circulates in
a hundred different versions and tongues. The very
idea of Visionary Joy and things floating around  - 
these days would most definitely have the name of a
syndrome (check with your employer  -  sometimes
this is covered. But, oh no, flames first lick the feet,
travel up legs, caress thighs, cook that lovely meat.
Dear Joan, standing still, not a move out of place.
All those angelics coming down, to carry you away,
what did they know of nation, state and home? I
miss you, like air, like a flagellent missing his
whip, like a horse, racing down that tired track,
with really no legs at all.

Friday, October 5, 2012


All that faceless music, oh no, no more.
That little white shirt and all that chemistry
pays the American bills as I watch these
professionals talk to each other. And as
much as they are enablers, so much too
they are not. These things are really senseless
anyway, and the people I see depend too
much on each other. Too hell with their
collectivistic impulses. As I see it, the bird
a'flight, already on the wing, knows better.
It's gone. Oh, the ways of all Mankind: I am
your shirt, but I want to be your button.'
How about this - I'll let my fingers grow long,
you stay distant after dining, and I'll take my
wine on the run and never think twice about
what we've done. On the backside of 
plagiarism, I notice, through the window, 
that man who is mowing his lawn.


...Has got to go, cannot be danced.
The calliope sounds better, even when
it's dead. Look at that monkey, alive on
a stick! What gives with all that shtick?
We are alive on a tightrope, for a moment;
balancing like treble on an old bass clef.
Here's the reason I'm so happy: just today
I went to the place where we used to meet.
It's been paved over now, and they're building
nearby a gasoline station and convenience store.
We are alive, on a tightrope, but for a moment.
We balance like treble, on an old bass clef.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012


Doing this two-step lightly, I am dancing
the jig off the corner. I can jump and fly,
but the seeming disaster that is Life resounds,
catches me back, calls me in again. Over there,
that tiny fellow with the broom, a Chinese man
tending to his restaurant's front - for maybe just
one minute, I would like to be him. No harm,
just to see. I can be anything I want - or at least
I was told, long time ago. All that time, and nothing.
I have arrived; the terminal is clear. Me, I have no
voice and my endless notebook is empty. I am
doing this two-step lightly - I suppose just
to exit this place. Dance. Dance. Dance.


I've long ago done salivating over you : like
a baseball field in an awful rain, there is nothing
now that can ever take place. The wash has washed
everything else away. There are pools where the
bases should be. With nowhere left to land or
slide, I will have to stay airborne. Above you.
Disclaiming whatever you were.
I have to listen to farmers and priests, doctors
and bookseller lawyers; carrion fetchers, dogs
of dismay. Yes, yes, I will nod and give back,
but never obey. They are holding a mirror, each.
None of it reflects back to me anything I have
even seen or worked with before. Truly, all
these things far surpasseth understanding.


Break the chains, secure the free.
Opposites attract : the low dog is snarling
at the gateway, the singular  postman walks
by, leaving a note and that's all. I cannot
blame the man for not finding out what
a canine incisor may feel like calf-high.
Once, a long, long day ago, I watched a
masked gunman riding the plains. He wore
a hood, like you never see in westerns, and
a long and weathered coat which nearly
covered his body  -  more like a riding
blanket than anything else. No Zorro
could have done it better. And then,
anyway, I wished to know so
many things more.
Who was this man, and where was
he headed? He rode into a storm,
how badly did that end up bothering
him? And, oh yes, what then of the
horse? Did anyone ever care, or
were they just beaten into fast
submission; the endless wild
horses harnessed, whipped
and thrown aside, just to
waltz like crazy over
hill and dale?

Tuesday, October 2, 2012


Pencils always at the ready, these are
architects working at their tasks; throwing
stone and brick out of ancient seas.Today's
man knows nothing of this. From hemp to 
coffee, we traverse these insincere ways. In
darkness I see the workmen walking to their
site, heavy with their lunch crates, funny, singing. 
They talk, and all their ribald intentions are soon
taken away and I am left with nothing but the
holding of hands. Apache girl, Filipino Christian,
leftover lad  -  any of you, roll away the stone!
I want a new immortality! Marjorie Sunshine,
oh now please come to me!
Puzzles? Do you doubt me? I am here, on71st
Street, hailing now this jumbled cab. I notice things;
there, here, Saul bellow, Delmore Schwartz, Isaac
Singer  -  all those distant, writer friends, once 
gone, are back again for one last blast. You see,
 you see, I inhabit a land of the dead, and 
all these men are still here at their tasks.


'And then we'll hear a door slam.'
I am a lost sailor in a sea of woe, a
taker of messages from the oracle Yadoh.
I situate my human heart and mind on a
distant star, 'Alarsis.Un', from where I came.
(Never mind the rest; the rest is all the same).


I wore new spooners while riding the carriage,
looking out a window that was dusted over.
Nothing much to see, my mind wandered.
I'd heard of trains which got lost in tunnels
and, as a writer, I was caught by some
running image of something being what
it cannot be. A story too clever for its own
good. I jangled some change in my pocket.
Do you know what it's like to just get tired
of dealing with someone time after time?
The same old behavior, the same useless
things. Like a starling, in seeking new wings,
running forward only to be dashed again
by that same old sun. I'd grown way too
tired to even complain. From today, I
swore, it all would be different.
I'd found a dead bird, in fact still warm,
lifeless and round in a concrete planter just
a few days before in the city. It must have
just fallen there after crashing into the
skyscraper glass above. Such things
happen more than you'd know. This
was a cat bird  -  alas, no more lives.
Back in this seat, I was looking to read,
something, anything, to pass on the time.
There was nothing intriguing at all; so
I sat there and wrote some notes to
myself. Alone, in a non-smoker car:
all this place, and no place at all.


Your propensity for dangerous malfeasance
keeps things going : the leopard that got out
of the cage, the dynamite that went off on your
watch, that little kid who fell down the well. My
God, I wonder, how do you manage? Every time
you're around, something goes poof!
It's like a magic candle in a circus ceremony;
where the clown exits the cake only to fall
right back in to another one, and his fingers
are reduced to smoke while his costume's
ablaze. Lights, camera, action, and all that.
I built myself a castle on a solid, rocky ridge,
and just as quickly the ridge fell down. I bought
with certainty into a deal that couldn't fail, and
just like that, it failed. Yeah, we're quite the
damaging team. One for all and all for one;
like those musketeers were heard to say.


Making up bedsheets with which to wrap the corpse.
corpse? Oh well, flowers and ducks will have to do.
There's nothing like this anywhere else, and
I'm really so happy you came. Sit down.
Let me look this over : fourteen pages of a
too-dense script to tell me now I am left with
nothing? Why this way? I used to be a rich
man, now the pilgrims want be dead as well.
This is just too much. I can't take any more.
Unlock that center door and let's push out the
horses; we can ride all night, and still make
Norton's Crossing by tomorrow noon.