Friday, May 6, 2016


I am yours, and I love you each. 
I want something special from this
damn'dest life. Yet there is nothing.
I cut through slime with the blade
of this knife. Putrid and Budapest,
Sickness and Trieste. My global
commitment to association is all.
If anything good has ever happened,
I forget.  My own charades are a
shadow-play on a Tuesday wall;
jagged and simple, and useless as
all. Charley himself, he's already
come and gone without speaking.
Along Riverside Park, just today,
I found myself trembling in fear in 
the rain  -  not rain, just a mist, but
cold enough, and wet too. I missed 
for my friends I once had here to 
see me. They are dead. Paul is
gone. And the rest, I don't care.
Whoever it is, buried in Grant's
Tomb, I'll find out soon. Before
that, I've got to get a taxi to stop.

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