2/24 Hours

The 12th hour strikes:  & as if dragged from ocean of dreams
I cross the space presuming how distant we have always been:
Why you must keep on hassling, & I in my solar functioning
must rifle papers that drum what I shall never mean:

It’s, baby, the way to keep on living, keenly responding
to highs & lows of happenings:  & should we forfeit our reason,
despair of rawer deals, who would bother to explain
to all & sundry that we are lambs, insconsequential themes?

I thus feast at the table:  coffee black, morsels of bread
& talk of men the mournless sun has blasted in showered sting…
Who cares if brats lying on walks, dirty & slumming,

Pin you with their eyes, as if denouncing this age of hustlers—
& I, they never seem, a personage of monks in constant
penitence:  Have heard the news, yet sipped on the silly routine…

This entry was posted in Imaginary Russian Roulette and Other Poems. Bookmark the permalink.

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