A loser can surely find time for love.
Before that I thought I was just another
waking asphalt animal perched on his
shaky brick-limb trying to do what it is
that rats do to stay alive.
The rats are the true underground.
Hamptons in Harlem.
My belly is torn asunder.
They’ve pulled apart the letters of
alphabet city. Don’t mind me–it’s just
my feet are getting wet and I never
realized I could swim. The Mets are
Citibank pets in steel cages. Plastic
surgeons from the west coast have
brought their palm trees with them,
they’ll be importing the rest of the
emptiness later. They’re sending me to
the outbacks, the caves in the dunes
where books meet man and clean hands
are an ideal to achieve.
They have so much to give.
They don’t need me here. Give me my
apocalypse and ship me out soon.
I am not sure how long I can carry this