Sunday, August 16, 2020

Scan the Man

It makes a kind
of sense, this
silent push to slip
into the shimmer
of a cyber hole
and hide amenably:
a new imaginary grace
that could replace
the awkward scarred
brutality of this
expiring city where
I now must needs reside.
(Must and needs belong
together; let that
English phrase abide.)  
What’s money but a toss
of paper rectangles and
button-shaped pastilles?
Storm the pastilles!
Maybe that would be fun.
What will anyone I love
decide to say to me?
Pray to me and I’ll
absolve us of our sins
or be absolved by you
from having to say
anything at all.
Not that I’m not
jonesing to have
confabs with whoever’s
reading this, and not
that I’m not liking pouring
out what’s left of yesterday’s
refrigerated coffee from
a clunky pressed glass
pitcher generously dosed
with half-and-half into
a big ol’ Houston Texas glass,
the kind they pour sweet tea into.
Not that anything’s amiss
besides the city’s endless
emptiness which has
to be more vacant than
it’s ever been in history.
Why are we here?
Scan the man, report to me
what he apparently can’t say,
that dumb ass who
did mumble something
I could not make out
a word of. But
no thing warrants
There is no thing.
I push poems
out and sing,
suck lollipops
and draw.
That’s how
I fuel me
and New York
City’s gaping maw.

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