THE LICENSE OF A LIFE
I'd rather have Canal Street running in my
veins than some old suburban superstore.
At least the horsemen are real, not fictive.
Established arts are the matter of junk right
now - Elizabeth hoodlums sparking of power
and reeking of flame. I can't get along any more.
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Have you not ever been to a place wherein nothing
is grounded? An old Buffalo warehouse, perhaps?
A showroom of furniture down on its luck - a couch
with a broken leg or a sagging armchair some old
grandmother head. A lamp with an absent pull string.
-
In listening to the reverie of some urban street cat
I take more comfort than is walking the mall-lane
sideways : people eating pretzels, scat-girls dipping
their ear bud dives. Even the roof here leaks something;
I can only hope it's plain water, a melting of snow.
This license of a life which allows me to go.
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