YOU ARE MY PINION MATTER
Or, anyway, I'm making you that. Walking down
8th in the early morning light - so many things are gone,
some many things closed up. What memory lingers where
I cannot remain. The Marlton still stands, or what it is anyway.
All those names come marching past me - Lilian Gish to
Mickey Rourke and why stop there? I remained when I
was a tender age. The one. The wonder. The wondrous.
The wonderer. All of that was alike in my rolling-sheet
of death when they took me out. Everything I lived in is
over : Studio School backstreets, MacDougal Alley loves,
Wilentz's bookstore, Rienzi's, The Jumble House, everything
running over. And now, I am a palaver, a cadaver, a marauder
in my own sickening darkness. The streets are wet with rain
and piss; the vomitorium of life keeps us busy with this.
Thunder reigns where the peppering light douses. Down.
Down. All things, together, are down.
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