TRYING TO THINK WHAT
NOT TO BE SORRY FOR
Having lost most everything, the wandering man is dazed;
he stutters between places - lanes on the street and blocks
on the sidewalk. The rueful windows of Fifth Avenue glow
as strangers would glow if they were a'fire. Black trunk gloves
on the livery car guy's hands. A suitcases hovers at the rear.
Behind the pillar by the flower shops in a row, a few kids
leer; beckoning their arms with a joint and a beer. I know
the feeling they're living and the places it will take them.
-
What am I waiting for anyway, and after all? I've lived a
long enough time to be able to tell my stories and tales : at
the least it seems that way - no one stops me, but then no
one really listens either. I have a couple of memories to stay
with : Andy Warhol's dead, Lou Reed, Bill Burroughs, Xenia.
Well, maybe not Xenia, I forget. I waver. I hesitate again.
-
Let me think this through : what are the early morning stars like
if not for illumining the sky. How many of the constellations I've
been told of really do exist? Listen to this upsurge in music and
misery - it's five in the morning and they're both rising together.
-
I've got to settle down, really settle in, find comfort in a place,
pleasure in a deed. Do something once for someone else.
Feed a bum or feed a pigeon - in either case, when you
start out with one, in a minute there are fifteen more.
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