Tuesday, August 25, 2015


I took a bus, I took a plane, I ambled, I walked.
The things which came together make this land a lark.
The jazz-pizazz I left behind, all the Union Square
stuff long over. Here - instead  -  I sat and placed my hat.
There is no longer living when it's all become a task :
foursquare and beleaguered, tawdry and tired too.
Shall I wear my trousers rolled? I don't think
even that would do.
This book has no other chapter? And why is that? Being
stuck, such as I am, in acknowledgements and in citations
instead, I haven't time to write another word. This is
sad, and this is sorrowful. I have entered that higher
land : a serene place, all quiet. Now, if I could
only stand, and face this world erect again.
I don't think even that would do.

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