Portrait of the Duchess of La Salle, Tamara de Lempicka, 1925


[Portrait of the Duchesse of La Salle, Tamara de Lampica, 1925]


Jumped back from the curb

genuflected his winter coat–standing up, waved.

I waved back

Then, after I rounded the corner from Staples, he ran across the street, praised

God as he reached the other side, dropped to his knees, thanked God again

the name of father, son and holy ghost, and prayed like Christopher Smart.

Jubilato in front of the old Natural History Museum.

Black in the summer air.

Hot, steam, but no cat.

Blue, dirt blue coat, cotton quilt

Good warm sleeping cloth,

pillow, maybe couch, mom at night probably.

Desert of hell at day probably on the sidewalk

Drips through dreadlocks.

Prances the street like a flea on a dog

Dodges folicles.

Mt. Adam

a street of glass to shed your ass

and glance and reglance your overall spit.

Now I know why poets wander.

All new.

Every every.

You, poet, make your action wherever you are because

the entry muds itself to you as you see,

you write,

you live at the thick slime of it all.

Keep piecing the world.

Keep stripping yourself of home.

Take that courage.


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