I AM IRONCLAD, PRETENCES
You shovel your shoelaces right into my eyes;
some Abraham Lincoln Brigade of imagined effect.
At the edge of old Dyckman Street there once was a
pier. As young boys jumping, we went swimming there.
-
How can anyone write so abstractedly of things that
never were? It's a mystery to me. There's no imagination
richer than imagined riches, and so that is how I've come
to be. The lion's den was a lair for a liar like me. Take
these cards I offer. Ten jokers, and a picture of a hare.
-
Oh shit-fuck now, I am so preoccupied. I don't care for the
news of the world, nor all those jerks shining bullets in
a church - the caravan of fools distends, the donkey-man is
walking backwards once again. Left to these devices, even
the whirling dervish at the corner trembles. His God has left
the frequent spots at which he used to linger. No man's land now.
-
Vinegar and spices. A dish for for a King, if a King would
ever eat. The wonderland satraps are setting their fat traps.
Beware, beware, the leopard that re-enters the town;
and I am ironclad, with all these pretences firm.
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