It's a running struggle and I don't
care - the gemstone's off the lily,
the forsaken candle burns.
What care I for grief or toil?
The rat-catcher vapors on 17th
street will lead me to nothing. I
can walk in my trance all alone.
Whitney, Vanderbilt, Whitman,
Cummings, Crane and me. I shall
introduce the eaves to the drainpipe
and be gone. William Blake and I
will have a whistle-stop sandwich.
I figure I shall live until the harbor is
dry again, and the train-whistles
need tumble into Newark Bay. There
are 10 more dumb black guys with
their spit in the river. I am seeing
them spray-paint away.
We are ruined, Uncle Winkle,
we are ruined. It's a running
struggle just to stay in place.