"It's about words, and words are all I have…"



giant black dog crouches in the park   squinty old eyes show me a zazen

monk   is he defecating?  bowing?  praying?   park on brant st.  crumbling +

cramped cemetery stones huddled close   are they monks kneeling?  peeing?

or crawling toward me  winter supplicants on giardia-frozen grass   bulldog’s

vet said not to sit in city parks  so poisonous are they  smeared with purebred

fecal decay   you will need more than a shower  +said bully will vomit on the

Roche Bobois chaise  all day


beeline for colette  a little slice of  paris  but with TO attitude  greeter says: i am

so happy you are here   eyes glaze over  fill with naked boredom for everything

poet  +her fey poetry   while multitudes of gorgeous french breads rot on marble

bar   a man who smells not french  sandwiches himself between me + the french

sticks   he says: listen lady if you have ever believed a depressive wants to be

happy   think again   they just want to be empty    i bludgeon him with a long hard

bread   +turn back to the sacrament of happiness  in the absence of his ripeness


i think about 10 yr. old morgan doucet who needs $200,000 worth of vimizim in order

to survive until next winter  morgan is dying of morquio syndrome   now the monks

enter colette with a litter  upon which they place me   like rimbaud   whose leg was

festering  they carry me up yonge st. to the dense green ravine of suburban childhood

where the river of babylon flows out to sea  no more sturm und drang for me    Even

though you cannot see gravity  you know it is there  right?   have no fear city-dweller

you will be so much more fuckable   come february




Deep Winter 2016


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