both pens disappointing
my last night of the hostel, arms covered in the green sisters and tape
slapping my warm boss's back, boss I called him always
outside on the curb of Bank st one last time having two cigarettes,
figuring the future fighting again, out here, now, the grey spring
10th & Arch, where I was a boy w/ a bowl cut w/
my mother and sister and Babe the pig, and the uncle that my father dislikes
waiting,
again the anxiety, for one thing certain--
getting my glasses tightened, the lab opens at nine and I've got to use the bathroom
so coffee is out of the question, for now, yet it is readily available on the corner.
Which perceptions will go into the toilet, directly and immediately the manifesto
teaches me, and I absorb obediently
I look up at the red lights and the swaying trees where A1 used to be,
red sash
strong, dense
thigh muscles
of yesteryear
in the time of plenty
order,
in the time of comforts,
still now, continuing, mother,
o, mother up in the mornings
and back to the sink in the evenings.
Going hard nothing, piles wait for me at home,
mansion of byproducts of lazing about,
drawers, locked, full of my works,
the manuscript which is forever a manuscript,
cat which will never be mine
and I, softly
watching in the dusk when I approach,
mewing, will never be its master
black hair, police interceptor that creeps
up behind, scorching red of a pedestrian,
the churring and grinding of truck gears,
the impending siren which brings me out of it,
back to Arch st, growing ever more real,
the emergency quickly approaches, again, a child perhaps
man w/ cane
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