Sunday, May 08, 2005


Flank half in
Shadow, palomino
Terrified by a

Rich lady’s dog, we all
Stagger in the face
Of ugliness, in the stead

Of truth we find evidences
Not forthcoming, you
Carry a little set of demons through

The world between its words
And what remains
Unsaid, bubbles of thought

Swaying hallucinogenic
In the dusky skyscraper light
Of 3pm, 23rd Street

The fifth day of the fifth
Month of the fifth
Year since the disillusionment

Of the millennium, I stop
Into the Andrea
Rosen Gallery, snag

A handful of Felix
Gonzalez-Torres coffee
Candies, turn

Flush into the monolithic
Dénouement, its feedback
Soundtrack haunting

The alleyways with sparkling
Guitar fuzz, next thing
I know I’m in San Francisco again

Then St. Paul, the Mississippi
Gurgling slackly beneath the cars
Of commuters fleeing

To the suburbs as the ghost
Town recommences, someone
Has left a crate of apples

In the parking lot and despite
Our best efforts to consume
Them they begin to rot, so Sunday

Morning we hungover haul
Them to the tracks and as a train
Passes we deliriously fling

As many as we can, splattering
Almost before they leave
Our hands, mine thrust into slowly

Dissolving pockets as skeleton
Night pervades, the fume-ridden periphery
Of Union Square abuzz

With transient glee, the fiery ritual
Of carousal recapitulating
Itself before my eavesdropping

Eyes, my friends you
Are never far
From mind, we continue

To thrash and smoke, we flare
Through winter atop
Our wiry bones, we barrel

Headlong and we are the ones.

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