Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Déjeuner sur “Curb”

Ditch all tepid sympathy - "poor didda thing” won’t do.
Empathy which shocks. That’s better. Find whatever cracks the glass
to flood you with the view. Break the locks. Wed spirit to unwitting letter.

Bear the brunts. Here's the touch one wants. Lavish days in languor: bend
your being toward vestigial pulses of its genesis. Settle only for what would
intolerably anger you if you did not receive it. Listen to the clangor,

love whatever just has flown into the hangar: be deceived by thieves, why not.
(They’re almost always hot.) Jot and doodle, don’t conclude or if you’d like,
conclude. Then let us collude in Tompkins Square and see where

there might be a perfect bench along a walkway’s curb to sit on
to eat lunch. (I’ll bring the sugar-free Hawaiian punch.) Let’s
spend our time defining that egregiously annoying word

which makes me murderously grumpy, which despite the lumps I’ve given it
from all the looting and the plundering I’ve tortured it with for so many years
will not admit a single certainty about itself. Let’s grab it by the ears.

Threaten it, if it will not succumb, with the “or else” of its worst fears, its hell:
evisceration of its spell. Find out if it’s true. This “hunch” – this fucking “hunch” –
what is a goddamned hunch? – I can’t stop having about you.


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