4534. WHICH I DON'T HAVE TO SAY

WHICH I DON'T HAVE TO SAY

This lark demands an answer, this sound

calls back a sound  -  we are living but

for moments like this : Rivington and Grand,

Attorney and Stanton. Many of the streets I

once loved are quiet and useless now.

-

The red bricks  -  yes, yes, that lay on Grand

Street where the neon madmen climb  -  are

scorched to the street, their dusty surface now

fire-burnt black near the doors of the Henry

Street Settlement. Something always aims for

art  -  whether it's the Spanish senorita

blessing herself while walking past the
rambling church, or the Chinese guy

with cymbals wailing past the gates.
Amateurs grow like weeds around

here. No one gets the real idea.

-

One iota, making time  -  watch high up

the Summer-silly moon, night after night

working its way to completion, to fullness  - 

one huge yellow globe over some really

sick-hot-feisty streets. For which I do

not have to say  -  'turn me over, baby,

I'm really well past done.'