Monday, July 22, 2013

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.'

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