My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.
De railroad bridge's
A sad song in de air.
We left behind some lonely women there.
Our mix tapes, backpacks and
a Delphic triangle in the East:
smoking shit-on-a-stick cigars from the last 7-Eleven
at the edge of
we were hungry, dead, buried alive in blankets,
the heater broken.
We hammered through the mountains into
arriving with the season’s second snow, drinking rum all the way.
There our good friends showed us hunched brown houses where
music poured from trim and rusty hinges.
There John Cage spoke prophetically to me from the buzzing silence,
the hum of heart and nervous system:
Your are here for a while
but still there is
Cease your staring:
the cicada song of window blinds
will rob your soul.
Late afternoon on Saturday we left and entered
boroughs labeled like the books of the Apocrypha
inching traffic jammed the brimming tunnels
veined into the city and awash with fumes
as if a mechanical island-palm held up this five fingered civilization.
We traveled up the index finger.
There we found
hoary like the beard of great Whitman
whom we saw selling gold Rolex on the street corner.
Poetry will fall on hard times, now and then, he said.
But we avoided his hobo advice
and slid along the El with his late night brothers
into the center of that beating hand—
Hassidic Jews clamoring, proclaiming! Vendors vending!
Citizens running! I heard
each to each, a primitive song, harmonized ambiguity
and we like prophets for a burning truth
ashed as cigarettes would into the wind of voices:
a great religious crash.
We gathered ourselves Sunday morning with a quiet breakfast.
We thought to venture out once more from
The city was asleep.
We lingered over streets and ate two hot dogs each.
I abandoned my journal to the sidewalk sea
and we slipped out from the city in the dipping sun
to drive back to things that drove us out before.