5084. RUNNING MY KNICKERS

RUNNING MY KNICKERS

Duluth to South Miami Beach and places in-between;

there's nothing like it, running in a dream. And everywhere

I go, it seems, I already there just left. How can I try and

catch my breath? In Brooklyn's ferry waters, at Red Hook's

fated edge, I found some more malarkey  -  brothers running

guns in loaves of artisan bread, men making macaroni  -  yeah

they still called it that  -  in a pasta shed behind a bar and

a leaning whorehouse with a truck outside from 1952.

-

Up at the old Navy Yard, now it's all slim girls with perfect tits

painting marble arches and stretching canvas bars, with their

newest artwork still burning in the Winter sun. They place it

all outside on rooftops, they say, to absorb the grace of God,

that oily Brooklyn sun running down from the Heavens above.

It's all new-age crap, but if they wish to believe, whom am I

to deceive? I'll never tell them the truth; they won't hear it :

-

That life is a bust and all you can do is do what you must.

You know that line, heard it all before. The men walk down 

the metal stairway in pairs  -  just like women, I suppose, but 

without the perfect breasts. I love gay artists; they're the best.

God must know His art, and forget the rest. I'm leaving now

before I dig a deeper hole  -  that's my conceptual art; the

land, the digging, the taking it all apart.