5042. AND FOR NOW THE FAINT ARE SETTLED

AND FOR NOW THE 

FAINT ARE SETTLED

Mount Scarnow, Mission Hurst, Raging Waters; each of

these places echo an acquaintance of time and memory;

for me the very same factor of quality and life. All that went

into the timings and the places is still present for me today.

I remember Glenn Larks, the boy with the yellow hair. I

still can sense Madelaine McClure and her garden airs.

Whoever says that schooling takes the time out of youth

is wrong  -  it brings more together, packs its wayward

punch so that we never forget where we have been.

Len Benjamin, walking his stones and rabble; Leo

Kirks explaining Shakespeare to me. Bob Crabble

always singing some silly song. We license 

ourselves to endings, it seems, before

we are even begun; and for now

the faint are settled.

5041. BRILLIANT, BRITTLE, FAINT AND DISTANT

BRILLIANT, BRITTLE, 

FAINT AND DISTANT

The battle gun that roars at twilight lays its

distant sound aside by dawn. There is just

no more drama to play out. Soundings by

night are the harbingers of another day.

morning dawns and dying die.

5040. IT WAS ONLY ONE

IT WAS ONLY ONE

T'was e.e.commings who said : 'i thank You God for this

most amazing day; for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and 

a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural

which is infinite which is yes...now the ears of my eyes awake

and now the eyes of my eyes are opened.' And yes. Yes. I 

want to say yes for all those grilly-opt things I can be loved

to hear and the miley-pop'd things I can see. Oh me.

-

Anyway, we Dangle. 'Here is the deepest secret nobody

knows....i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart).'

-

Truth and shade are both domains of nothing and nothing

measurable matters a very good God damn. Seems

outlandish Yet it's truth  -  like the wealth of a malefactor

is untrue or the skidding of a log on river defies Nature.

Now give the Scotsman his new measure. All. All. All.

5039. I AM NOT HIDING SACRIFICE

I AM NOT HIDING SACRIFICE

My right eye comes up to the level of God.

My left hand is sunk to the mud of Lucifer.

All that I do is a candle's breath from the

boundaries of darkness, yet a small ways 

from the light as well. There's the paradox

sandwich I eat every day. Sometimes I 

figure I have had enough, will not go on, 

have no remaining need to be : and then

it passes off, like a basketball guy getting

rid of the ball, I still jog down the court

with nothing in my hands at all.

-

I have a countess for the windmill's 

weather-vane high atop the peak  -  yes,

spinning and twirling in some form of wind, 

she first intrigues and delights, then puzzles

and angers. All this, while the wind yet blows.

-

I am still here : ravished and rabid perhaps,

but here nonetheless. Hungry for the Truth, and

thirsting for lies as well  -  the true dichotomy of

a simple, wooden, human man. Carve me, cut

me, saw me, and I shall yet go on I'm sure.

5038. AT THE ART STUDENTS LEAGUE

AT THE ART STUDENTS LEAGUE

As this was a fixative of men, I took one hand

and dipped it in a bucket. All those horrid colors

which the artist plies came dripping down : a yellow

to a green then a blue to a red-purple. And I was

no match for you. Flagrant Picasoo projections,

the reliquaries of ashen domains and very earthenware

things, holdings of the ancients and all their doomed 

flowers. We talked, and then we tried. the strange

Hispanic guy with the long, black straight hair past his

shoulders was doing Yoga on some bench behind us.

He stretched and yawned like a pro, balancing alone

on his two hands and arms. How long can you keep

it up? I wondered. How long would it be worth?

In the lobby, the Freemason artist was selling brushes 

and pencils  -  all the stuff the pretty girls kept buying.

I missed the bristle and the fluff. No one missed me.

I went back to the Spanish guy, thinking  -  if he 

does Yoga, does he eat yogurt?

5037. FACEPAINT

FACEPAINT

Worn things, what wears well; the overland

computations of miles and yards, yards and

miles. At the railroad yard, the cars collect

old men  -  those washed out and ended, figures

of a waiting an and a loss. They stand around,

with fingers clutching cigarettes and collars 

upturned  to the cold and wind.

-

Smoke curls its wafts and twists, wears well

the time it travels. I am left to ponder :

what I am and where I was last.

5036. THANK YOU MOST TIME

THANK YOU MOST TIME

I will apologize for nothing  -  bequeathing you my

elegiac words and - yes  -  I do have a mind and it

speaks. It's after 8pm, and this place is closed. You

wanted so badly to get in, sir, with your little boy.

For a last-minute snack, as you put it. Now quit

cursing the crew  -  yes, they're still inside bu

they're finishing up to go home. Leave them alone.

-

The show is nice-looking; not quite a saddle-shoe

but then again you don't ride. Not quite a boat-shoe,

but, again, neither do you boat. More a mountaineer's

heavy boot to walk through your shit. How would 

that be; how's that for a fit?

5035. ONE MILLION RUDIMENTS

ONE MILLION RUDIMENTS

At the basement stairs the doorway  -  

running the length of the building, against

glass and steel. The wide fence stayed open.

A sycamore tree grew, for years, and covered 

over a few of the old steel tines. The fence never

twisted; stayed straight. No one ever showed up.

-

Such a lonesome, plaintive cry  -  a kitten, a cat

with a mangled ear, one dog, limping away.

5031. I'M NOT SAVED

I'M NOT SAVED

Never was would be can. The world is too

big for that  -  every enticement known to man

is a slingfest in my face. I hold the peach-orchard

wine in my Summer hands. I swim in the sinkhole

by the volcano in Autumn. My singular oneness

is a wonder to see. Here. Here. Now.

-

Let me coax you on : let's have a free-fall where

the badger plays and runs, let's jump the hoop as

the farmer does his rounds. Look over the moon

on the other side of midnight  -  wax the wane,

see the new sliver.

-

Some men park their cars where they can find them.

I always hide mine, and leave it their for days,

knowing I'm not saved.

5030. MAID OF THE MIST, IN MALE SONG TIME

MAID OF THE MIST,

IN MALE SONG TIME

There were old songs and rhymes I was told when

I was young that all turned out to be lies. Nothing

seemed ever true, and every tall tree fell down. I

learned soon enough life was riddles. My grandmother's

kerchief always fell to her knees while my father was

doing her nails  -  toes and fingers, grown hard and

brittle with age. I never understood any of that  -  nor

why men worshipped old Gods and then believe in

new time. The light on the horizon always rose up

with a roar  -  bellowing, gesticulating, running off.

Like cattle in a stampede, my mind took ideas and

churned them, broke them, erected Niagara Falls

and Paterson Falls together, rolling down and

over every last thing. Maid of the Mist was I.

5029. GO BACK

GO BACK

What that means is walking the smoke back into

the fire. Once that's achieved, well then you're OK.

I went to Smathers, Ohio, driving a Kenworth, doing

88 miles an hour for two hours at a stretch. Lucky I

wasn't killed or someone else  -  Those tractor-rigs get

jaundiced at such a speed and often just refuse to stop.

Wasn't like that though : more the genie was with me

each roll of the way : ashtray on fire, the last truck in

Pennsylvania, I don't even think they noticed me.

-

Tractor trailers are like the thugs of the roadway :

brash, strong, mouthy and blunt. If that ain't no

legal team, I'll surely understand. Whistling past

the graveyard as I drove full speed ahead.

5028. MAIDENFORM

MAIDENFORM

There's nothing better : now the factory

where they made this stuff is a prison.

Or was. Back then. Everything else is

in China, and anyway it's so tiresome

seeing those stupid models traipsing

around in their lace and furs. I want to 

give up, send a few dollars to the Red 

Cross, buy the homeless some clothes 

and food and  -  by golly- vacation

in Harlem, not Holland.

5027. NOW NOT NEARLY NEAT

NOW NOT NEARLY NEAT

I haven't seen your hat off for a very long time, and that

stupid photo of you in the white polo shirt just doesn't work.

I understand there's no hair under there, but I also say 'so

what.' If you're going to Cannes, please go. In fact, consider

a one way ticket; they're cheaper. I love the expense-account

ledgers that you keep in the drawer  - they're replete with all 

those sandwiches and tunas and steaks and khaki cuts.

A man charms his own mind before he charms that of

others  -  so let's better hope this worked. Sit there

on your enticing wooden bench and watch the

windbags pile on. 'Charmed, I'm sure', is

what they all say.

5026. FIFTY WINTERS AGO

FIFTY WINTERS AGO

Now I am a shaker without moxie, a charge

without a slip. Count me among no men you know.

It's been too long in the making and too much to

discard. Seal my envelope with a kiss and then

be on your way  -  my doorway is empty now

and even the hinges are broken.

5025. PEEKSMANVILLE

PEEKSMANVILLE

Not holding on tightly, taking too loose a

stretch, the words and ways of this easy

player are gone and lost forever. On the

side of a hill in the west 70's there's a

monument to Schwerner, Chaney and

Goodman  dead civil-rights workers from

NYC, in Philadelphia Mississippi. It just is.

They died in 1964 in a sort of unstated war.

Maybe only I remember, but that's enough.

-

I call it Peeksmanville instead of Trump Place or

Riverside West  -  all that real estate jargon is just

more of the problem. Can't talk; my tongue is tied.

Hold my hands, these cuffs have made them raw.

5024. CRAGGY PEAKS OF THE NIGHTWATCH

CRAGGY PEAKS OF 

THE NIGHTWATCH

The time is ripe for joy and happiness; the ocean

of all that is about to burst is in its rising tumult,

and I am happy for once at last. No time for sadness;

no time to rue. The black car that passes, windows 

glazed and dark, has no passengers within it. 

And the driver's a ghost.

-

Why do I have to find the digest by which to

catalogue all these things : raspberry and emerald,

dark ruby wine, an elixir of chemical change.

-

This is a notebook untouched by human hands,

and those are surely the hand-written notations of a

God. Once it was stone inscription; now it is paper

and lead. Bring me on; take me over the top.

Let me see the other side, oh let me see it yes.

5023. MODERN MAN

MODERN MAN

Modern man isn't really 'modern' at all:

he just hangs his old things on modern pegs.

-

The darkness is a peg we hand the light on;

let us deliver sermons from evil themselves.

5022. WALKING THE SANDS

WALKING THE SANDS

In the nondescript alleys of this old life, there are

paths leading to oceans  -  and others leading to

dead-end places and lands of the doomed.

Every high-roller in chimney-town has been

there. They all know the name and they

know what it's like.

-

I've got no footsteps to follow, since there's

nothing ahead and little behind. I'll walk sideways,

as needed, just to get through the tight spots.

-

Look at the needle on that meter-man's gauge.

What's he reading, exactly : I wonder. The temperature

of this Earth knows its bounds, or we hope, and my

forehead stays about the same. The light has no heat,

but the Summer heat is heavy. Can any of this measure

be taken? Like reading Shakespeare in a cold, dark

theater; why bother? Just wait 'til they start reading the lines.

-

Here, let me fixate on something else, for this all

must get tiresome after a while. Dear reader, I have

guile, though I am guileless; I am a chicken with fear,

though I have a fearless heart but what meter will tell?

5021. LOGJAM GONE TO PIECES

LOGJAM GONE TO PIECES

They've come after me now with a hammer.

This place reeks of my own formaldehyde, and 

the river's about to blossom with way too many 

logs and cuts. Men die from these break-ups  -  

timber smashing free, stressing even the water 

with the force, and squashing men like peas.

-

I really want to be more sensitive than this; and I am.

I read of the men from distant wars, who only learned

to appreciate the sky at night and morning when it was

all they had above their heads in the hours before their

most-uncertain survival's end. As that was, now it's not.

-

I live in the nighttime sky  - tracing those lunar beams and

shadings on everything, writing words of different meanings 

to placate angry Gods, and watching the weather to see what

fury will bring. It's no laughing matter, even though I will

survive. My heart is sounder than the reasons men use 

to kill by, and  -   for every care they claim to have  -  I

have twenty more than they do.

-

Here, here are my feet. Torn-calloused, with socks and

hurting. Right by them, believe it or not, my own curled

dog sleeps  -  making those wonderful canine noises of

sleep, sounds I can almost hear to understand. She plays

in her dreams in a frolic of joy. If I could only share, I'd

better understand. As it is, so many things leave me dark.

-

What are we but blots? Where are we headed but, 

once more, downstairs. Whether we call it up or down, 

the fact is, more pointedly, that there's no direction at

all. Worry not, then, free-stump that you are. What is

present is what has been. What has yet to come,

be sure, is coming; a logjam gone to pieces.

5020. GOING IN WITHOUT GLOVES

GOING IN WITHOUT GLOVES

I can douse with the best and fight like a chilling jouster

too; just as good as any of those indecorous high-toned

bastards seated in the chairs. I am a small country of one, 

and they'd have to take me in. The atom bomb I possess, 

they haven't even dreamed about yet. Gavel me to death,

Mr. Chairman, go ahead. I'm not leaving until I speak.

5019. PUTTING THE AROMA BACK IN THE BOTTLE

PUTTING THE AROMA 

BACK IN THE BOTTLE

My paints smell of your hands, and my hands smell of you.

I can't dismiss the meaning of that  -  here I am, blue for

sky, green for the grass, quaintly re-packing these tubes 

of paint. I had a nice easel-box once but some bastard

stole it. My brushes, if not quickly cleaned, begin to

resemble a dead rooster's comb. I don't want that

around. But, anyway, as I said, things here remind me

of you  -  odor and aroma, scent and salve. This morning,

in the 6-inch snow and the frozen air, nothing smelled

like anything at all, and the white snow squeaked beneath

my boots. It was pre-dawn, and I couldn't find a real

color for that. Fantasy, maybe  -  the azure of attention,

the gray of the lines of your face, the pink and the hue of

something else. I'll chance it all, just walking back now 

in the same new snow. How to be putting the aroma 

back in the bottle now is something I just don't know.

5018. THE TITLE

THE TITLE

Let me be the one who takes the title home; to your

mother, to your dad, to your foyer, to your yard. It's

all just as meaningless. Outside the swimming pool, 

the lines of your house don't connect. I'm always

disoriented by that. The bicyce propped on the shed 

wall, the mitts and the tennis rackets on the workbench, 

I can get all that. Until your father comes home anyway

and begins asking questions : who moved my lantern?

why is my toolbox over there? what time do you get in?

Life gets harder in the perilous moments like that.

5017. CARRY MY MAD FENCES HOME

CARRY MY MAD FENCES HOME

Swearing fealty to others in line for the same

is really no big deal : sparrows fly in flocks, starlings

sweep along as one. Here, where the river bends

its capillaries beneath the highway bridge, I listen

to no one and reply to no man's command. Up above

my head, a few specious trucks drone on, a car 

or two speed by. I hear the horn or the brakes

the trucks makes : noises in search of origin,

freight on its way to nowhere.

-

Annoyingly, a Winter's wind still speeds the rushes;

brown tipped grasses, bent and broken, now try

seeding the river's edge. Like some Thanksgiving

prayer of praise or grace  -  now long forgotten  -  

no one cares and nothing listens. Things will take

where they may. In  another three months, a new

profusion of everything will cover this entire spot.

5016. AGNES MARTIN (ALWAYS)

AGNES MARTIN

(always)

It is not (always) necessary to

clutter up the frame or the canvas 

space with lines or objects (always). 

It is (always) easy to be observant.

You that will not bel canto. You

who will not serve easy, nor believe.

Be you rootless again?

-

Always come back to the place

yopu have left : like chickens home

to a roost, before the clutch of the

hen, before the dropping of the eggs,

before the eyefuls (always) of greed

of the collectors.

5015. TUSSLE TUSSLE MAD HUSTLE

TUSSLE TUSSLE 

MAD HUSTLE

Here I am, a ship on the sea just loafing free.

Outside the sky and water, nothing much else

bubbles up to me. Let me rest here, as I wish.

5014. TIMEFROND

TIMEFROND

It's always just a question of

what you're happy doing : the

rest I guess is OK with me.

5013. FORCEFUL VENGEANCE HIGH HAT OLD SONGS

FORCEFUL VENGEANCE

HIGH HAT OLD SONGS

Don't make me comment : I won't

no fuss again and she's always the

same : two wells on one hilltop and

the old forceful house shining its

lights from within 'neath the

brave, full moon.

5012. USED TO GO

USED TO GO

I used to go to Philadelphia every fourteen days. 

Had a girl there named Gwendolyn  -  she said

she couldn't wait any longer than that. I called her

Gwen; all she ever said was 'when.'

-

The kind of coat I wore back then consisted of

wool-knit and some leather  -  inserts and cut-outs

together; a few snaps and a zipper. Murder to get

into, and more difficult to get out of. But it kept

me warm. Took it from a dumpster one drunk night.

-

The first car I ever owned was from a junkyard, free.

The guy who was hauling it in didn't care; he said, when

I asked, 'sure, yeah, go ahead, take it. It ain't gonna' do

me any good and it's probably a piece of shit.' I didn't

care. Made it go two weeks later and drove it a few years.

-

My shoes, back then, were mostly shoes from guys running

off from the draft, on their ways to Canada. They'd stay a few

nights in our safe-house on 11th street, and then leave when the

ride came, and put all kinds of stuff behind  -  shoes, coats, pants, 

shirts and the rest  -  stuff they claimed they didn't want. 

Every pair that fit, I'd keep. 

-

Same with the girls, but they were different too. It was 1967, and

it seemed everyone  -  besides being very young, me included  - 

was stoned and horny as hell, together. The girls were running

off from their own military as well  -  Wacs or Waves or whatever

they were  -  they hated Vietnam too you know. But before they

left, they always wanted to fuck. Sleep naked, and fuck again.

It was some really crazy shit.

-

Then there were the Digger girls from east 3rd. They were 
nutso  too, yet they were all these rich girls from Connecticut, 
it seemed, spiting their parents, living poor, giving things 
away. They were always naked too  -  damnedest thing. 
The Diggers had a free store they ran, on 10th or 11th, 
I forget  -  anything you wanted, for free. I'd get sent over 
to the place they all lived in, on 3rd, to deliver some

papers or money or something, and they'd answer the
 door, always, bare-ass naked. A whole three rooms
 filled with naked babes. Used to give me 
the shivers just thinking.

-

Now, it's over buddy  -  so far gone the shades are drawn.

My life's a dead-end street with not even a whistle of a

chance for salvation or fun or grief. I take it on the chin

and just remember what has been, and

the way things used to go.

5011. WRITING FAST BECOMES ITS OWN JOY

WRITING FAST BECOMES 

ITS OWN JOY

All those bricks and salvos, they have no name; they're 

just thrown out like some riff-raff from a nasty Irish bar.

And I'm not saying, just meaning.  Here, look about you,

what do you see? Every Woolworth's in the world has

been closed down and vanished. Nothing left but stupid

pretzel factories and jam palaces. Who makes this world?

Today it's us, tomorrow, it's the kids; wonder of wonders 

and sabbath-land in the far wilderness too. It won't be

getting any better than this. Let me carry my battleship-gray,

the monument I wanted. I'll place it down at the Naval Academy's 

reviewing stand and see what transpires. Johnny-Come-Lately 

by whatever means, he can have whatever stays. 

Look happy. Look far. When writing fast

becomes its own sweet joy, you know

you've gone too far.

5010. MY MICHAELMAS NIGHT

MY MICHAELMAS NIGHT

I didn't know where I was; and I'd

awoke not knowing either, but it was

not yet a crime to live in a world of

featureless things : to not know, to not

understand, to be half in another world.

-

No one took my hand; the motivations

were like Three Stooges things  -  slaphappy,

stupid and dumb. Like priests serving lunches

of cupcakes and gin to the poor  -  I had to 

ask why and what for? Was the good I was 

meant to see somehow now escaping me?

-

The gentlemen were all sitting down for a council

meeting. St. Francis Xavier and the Brohos of the

needy. Sister Angelina DelVecchio up at front.

-

I took my silver pen and dipped it in needy oil.

To limber up my catwalk I centered to the from

of the room. Standing fast, I pronounced the meeting

over : like light from a furnace, white, the anger 

seethed from the people's eyes. I smiled and 

bowed to their wishes. The humble light

of love was never brighter.

5009. MY CARNIVEROUS BUMPSTER

MY CARNIVEROUS BUMPSTER

Eating the waves of the cauldron, like the sea

on fire, the ships all burning their woods and sails,

the tall masts of Lebanon now floundered  -  some

thirty thousand men have died on this endeavor.

Like reading Gilgamesh, a hunk of massive story

based on Mankind's width, we realize too soon too

late just what we are; men of stature, but lost as

Gods. Those, as us, who cannot live forever, wilt.

-

Death is not the end, but then neither is Death

the answer. I know not either of the categories

flatly well, yet I see enough to know the way I need

to travel : straight up, not hunched, with a pack of

 gold upon my back. Brigands and night thieves

will try to steal from me, I know; but I shall never

let them. Steadfast and stern, I stand alert.

-

My heart is in the fields, and my honor is not the Devil's.

5008. MY GRAVE MOMENT

MY GRAVE MOMENT

Put me down for one. I bought a Monet.

Or was it Manet? Or was it Daviud Mamet?

Was that a play? Too many cashable moments.

The frightened auctioneer just hit me with a stick  -  

he said he was sorry after I said I'd asked for it.

No bids; we were dunking lillies in the afterhours 

bar. Lil said 'nothing this good can last forever.'

-

I had a few questions and they said 'put them down

on paper.' So I did : How do you know when what 

you don't know is enough? If there's a noise at the

Ausable Chasm, is it then audible too? What is the

roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd?

-

'Here, right here, this is where he disappeared. He was

talking about the Father and his brothers and something 

weird, just like smoke and fire, happened, and he was 

gone. Some Jewboy David Copperfield trick never 

seen before. Tom here, Tom wanted to stick his fingers

in the hole, or something like that. I said, 'Whoah; who 

you think you got here, Mary Magdalene?' Yeah,

they all laughed, but just for a moment or two.'

-

That was so very long ago; before Charlemagne, before 

the Titanic crashed, before Bikini Atoll. Now, I admit,

it's all forgettable but what the heck. Thought 

I'd just give it a try.

5007. I'M IN MY COCKPIT AGAIN

I'M IN MY COCKPIT AGAIN 

This necessary inquisition takes its favor from 

having no grounds to be heeded. I'm in my

cockpit again and strapped in  -  going nowhere

fast and taking orders from some jumbled nerve 

on a radiophone from some faraway place below.

As if each word has a shadow, all I hear is noise

and interference. 'What is that you say, I cannot hear?'

-

Where in my consciousness, Lord, do you dwell? 

Where in it do you make your home? In what part

of it do you dwell, but where in it do I as well??

-

Nothing comes over these wires : a large, long absence,

a journey where no one has been for a very long time  -  

that evanescent silence between things and their meaning,

or objects and their form. I want to be an artist forevermore,

delineating this world with an outsize pencil kept sharp.

-

I once had accolades; I was once knighted. I once has an

Oscar presented to me, a grand price of squalid, low people,

squealing and clapping and yelling and barking  -  back and

back and back at me. Lord, Lord, where do I dwell?

Lord, Lord, take me home once more.

5006. LISTEN TO THE HARMLESS

LISTEN TO THE HARMLESS

One degree above zero at 5am; like nothing I'd

imagined while sleeping. I awoke to find a pretzel 

in my mind : all those malfeasant children with their

toboggans and sleds, skates and skis. Just yesterday

they were falling off the cliff on Donaldson Road, and 

now they're nowhere to be seen. I like the dead 

silence much better anyway.

-

Look, look up at the dawn  -  red lines over the Raritan

River, red lines in the sky  -  a piece of the moon, somehow

left over from the day before, lingers. A New York City

bus goes whizzing by. I think I was supposed to be on it.

In it? On it? How's that go again?

-

Listen to the harmless drivel from a drunken man.

He's walking the street along the woods while trying

to clear his head  -   like Lou Reed once said, 'I guess

I just don't care, or I'd be driving a Dodge in Minnesota.'

Yeah, a certain kind of sense there I can understand.

5005. TRYING TO THINK WHAT NOT TO BE SORRY FOR

TRYING TO THINK WHAT 

NOT TO BE SORRY FOR

Having lost most everything, the wandering man is dazed;

he stutters between places  -  lanes on the street and blocks

on the sidewalk. The rueful windows of Fifth Avenue glow

as strangers would glow if they were a'fire. Black trunk gloves

on the livery car guy's hands. A suitcases hovers at the rear.

Behind the pillar by the flower shops in a row, a few kids

leer; beckoning their arms with a joint and a beer. I know 

the feeling they're living and the places it will take them.

-

What am I waiting for anyway, and after all? I've lived a

long enough time to be able to tell my stories and tales : at

the least it seems that way  -  no one stops me, but then no 

one really listens either. I have a couple of memories to stay

with : Andy Warhol's dead, Lou Reed, Bill Burroughs, Xenia.

Well, maybe not Xenia, I forget. I waver. I hesitate again.

-

Let me think this through : what are the early morning stars like

if not for illumining the sky. How many of the constellations I've

been told of really do exist? Listen to this upsurge in music and

misery  -  it's five in the morning and they're both rising together.

-

I've got to settle down, really settle in, find comfort in a place,

pleasure in a deed. Do something once for someone else.

Feed a bum or feed a pigeon  -  in either case, when you 

start out with one, in a minute there are fifteen more.

5004. I WILL GO INTO THE FUTURE

I WILL GO INTO THE FUTURE

A pure metabolism that makes a certain rhythm;

that which stays with me, that which lingers. 'Well,

ah, I hardly know him.' I've heard all that before.

-

They parked a red Chevy out at the curb, came

forth with a few suitcases and a bag. Up the stairwell,

through the door. I was watching, and they were no more.

-

Her name, she said, was Sharon. 'I'm here with the guys, 

y'know, for the deal and the party.' I said I was afraid I didn't,

and let it go at that. She didn't care and didn't notice anyway.

-

That was a few months back; now the weather has changed 

and we're awaiting Spring. When this happened, it was at the

end of Summer, and people were still drinking beer outside.