sixty-two years

lack of sleep

the old man said to me, boy you know things
they ain't quite what they used to be
and he confessed that at last
after sixty-two years living downtown was a bit much for him

finding myself preempting age and asking myself similar questions
i'm wondering where i'm going
as all paths make a start with the first step

he noticed my guitar and suggested i keep playing
as long as i said something with the words
there can be no union
yea like we had
when the flower of the that overblown summer bloomed
love
yea none so fluent as that have had a chance to see it all



and i'm wet but it ain't been raining
i'd be caught
but there's no containing the truth
in the wildly beautiful intangible
spirit of humanity
we live in shit
and are compelled not to die
we don't know truth
but represent it in a lie

her breasts are a river
her eyes are a fire
the city is mad and i am a liar
got hold of a pen

if i'm dutiful i'm contagious
if i persevere i win
if i can then i find i'm bound
to write the impression in

though this red ink isn't fitting for the garbage that's this
but this is no valentine this is what it is




i woke looking at the ocean and that's terribly romantic however
i woke when the sprinklers started watering the sand

and me and the passers-by didn't talk about the beauty of the morning
had all the charm of a freshly desegregated city
then behind me on the bus
they're discussing the breadth and the depth of the truth of art

this conversation could go on forever
like a bit of sun on a diamond ring

and a diamond is nothing but heated and compressed bits of rotten animals