A STEP TOWARDS THEM (for my favorite poet)

Basquiat said, "Forget it,"
and created an art in himself,
glowing in profundity
long after the coroner used a human-sized spatula
to place him in the earth.
Poor Mozart continues to rot
(somewhere)
as Marina Abramovic bares her breasts
in the same way
the low brass interpret Mahler:
recklessly, loyally,
marking time in their own way.
The rest of this world marks time, too,
differently, though,
baring silk ties instead of boobs
from 8-5 or 9-6,
major holidays off,
increasing benefits with years of experience.

On the train home,
a man asks me for a nickel,
and lies burn holes in my pockets,
for I am surviving too
and surviving two
lives: one of want,
one of necessity
(you guess which is which)
Do not compromise.
Do not compromise.
Do not compromise, I bleed.

A single burning bulb in the twilight, perhaps, 
is the only pleasure
we have.
Is the earth as full of them as it is of us?
(You guess who is who)
I want.
I necessitate.
I bleed.

A glass of whiskey when a glass of water would do and back to work. My heart is in my pocket, it is Lunch Poems by Frank O' Hara, and the world, refusing to stop, spins on and on and on and on

and on.

 

 

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