Soon the vast indifference of New Yorkwill blast its last voluptuous extremity –
at least that I can stand this afternoon:
it’s not that I’m at its command
as much as I can’t ever not be
in the harrowing expanse of its calamity –
to watch it caring not a whit – to be inside
the heart of it – though I am only human
and madness is a shoo-in while another
ravaged would-be rock star slams
her damned vindictive sexual guitar
across the street to dare to try to bust up
Tompkins Square with exegeses on despair.
She’s currently apparently deciding if tonight’s
the night that she will spill me, kill me, will me
to become a bum instead of a conundrum.
But bums are good: I’ll be two –
each with a kindred kick-ass hair-do.