The dove-white gulls
on the wet lawn in Washington Square
in the early morning fog
each a little ghost in the gloaming
Souls transmigrated maybe
from Hudson’ s shrouded shores
across all the silent years —
Which one’ s my maybe mafioso father
in his so white suit and black shoes
in his real estate office Forty-second Street
or at the front table wherever he went —
Which my dear lost mother with faded smile
London
crossfigured
creeping with trams
and the artists on sundays
in the summer
all ‘tracking Nature’
in the suburbs
People getting divorced
riding around with their clothes in the car
and wondering what happened
to everyone and everything
including their other
pair of shoes
And if you spy one
then who knows what happened
Sometime during eternity
some guys show up
and one of them
who shows up real late
is a kind of carpenter
from some square-type place
like Galilee
and he starts wailing
1.
to wake to winter in the coming out of the time of year
when they release
the masterpieces,
but to be still in the other night.
some drown in movies.
some prefer the unfinished
ungovernable recital,
a mystical ecology
where one dies in a camp,
or rolls out with the dice
on the sidewalk among boys with
cardboard shields
and plays dead in white crinoline.
what if paradise was only lifting the veil to flirt.
no one perfect, but perfection inserts
us so, Pascal
1.
between the object and the floor
the couch is a pedestal and a shawl
and just woke up her hair. she never
ever leaves the floating other house
but through some stories they call.
later that was her name the collaborator
of things shine in the picture. hand
flew off her early hair though held
by flowers. later her name was grete.
her hair feels angles by flowers that
before her name was shori the
penetrator in the history of no décor.
the archive dance of
frank gehry crumples
to the sky its finger
and walking bridge.
the mummers disappear
my city sounds.
dance crumples to
the archive sky of fela.
the breaking public crush
a lot and pilgrimage from
greenville (to farmville) to ruleville up the road.
let me place Mrs. Hamer, who
crush like an architect outside, like
broke composition, in parchman.
lula and helena strayed
to the dock, founded the hiding
republic of the westside trucks to come
I didn’ t fall in love. I fell through it:
Came out the other side moments later, hands full of matter, waking up from the dream of a bullet tearing through the middle of my body.
I no longer understand anything for longer than a long moment, or the time it takes to receive the shot.
This kind of gravity is like falling through a cloud, forgetting it all, and then being told about it later. On the day you fell through a cloud...
It must be true. If it were not, then when did these strands of silver netting attach to my hair?
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’ t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
