I contemplate a lot while walking, air darkening, and I feel the chill on my cheeks, finger’s a bit numb, but perspiration beading on my brow.
I’m here. there . . .
Below Boylston street past the Rattlesnake, roof-deck bar closed no doubt; and I can’t go back there since there was this thing back in July when there was an issue with a skin job, and I can’t help if a couple of eggs get broken when I’m making omelets.
Within the image of the old derelict steam vents, like in china town, my black jack boots step, one in front of the other, and my mind wonders off again, that constant internal dialogue that I would trade stop if the local organ bank would take me.
I have chosen the romantic tapestry that never quits re-citing itself. this is me for Elohim’s sake.
Underwritten by the animal, the hot terror stuff
thrusting up, jerking around, wiping out,
I would do this in acrostic diptych, each in order,
I would embrace and dignify the archaic laws of Hebraic poetic conceit, but, but. Then – knock it off the agenda, save the guts from spilling out on the asphalt, if I have any. My heart in hand and maybe I’m connected. No – walking lone toward some china town flop joint off Harrison Ave, with the stale florescent neon signs, alone and loaded on every fucking thing that happens.
That has happened.
it’s where I pray. Chinatown. Dirt, Desire, Hope and broken souls.
Nothing
patterns itself. But, why copy the Shoah,
no first word.
no singles parties.
the artist a-wash in provisions.
keep a-head for the combo plate at the diner.
the world is hyphenated—
a killing spree of syntax
the downtown cats don’t purr
like they used to—
I smell of education, they say. I come with scroll,
all empty with guilty desires to write Piyutim, but,
wheelchair Jesse, x-whore, won’t take my Vid calls.
it don’t pay to love her.
Blackgod derm’s word-scars the deaf and blind.
what else can an old hacker do?
skin cracked, weathered in baby oils
reversion—slid into some
virgin slot one within the other
I’m not too worried about the cops.
I look guilty.
hell, I stink guilty, but at least the black-god derm wore off.
And even if I wrote in Hebrew, if
the writing goes well one day,
and not so well the next I have this, and her, and instantiating, our comfort zone,
each remaking a betrayal,
one within the other.
I’m waste deep
in Eden shit — sending just two soldiers into that place,
Asher, my narcotic ally hugged me with promises and vanished.
I imagine his cloud-head pressed in skyglass, silk grey suit and snot. I’m thrown out—
chapter and verse,
page by page
spilling into these streets and thinking
somebody gotta do something.
somebody gotta dig up the body,
make sure s/he’s zeroed out,
if three’s down to
one’s down also . . .
in case the quantum’s no-matter is
still partnered up with Asher, and working things from some townhouse,
how many times I gotta step on something
before it gonna not split?
Like time.
Like me.