Just because there is music



piped into the most false of revolutions







it cannot clean these senses



of slow wireless death crawling



from a slick mirror



1/8th it’s normal size . . .







Marty was found dead by the man literally



blue 12 hours after falling out



at the foot of the Cloisters



with its millions in rare tapestry



and its clear view of the Hudson







and even testing your blue pills



over and over to reverse



my slow situations



I wind up stretched across the couch



still nodding with Sherlock Holmes



examining our crushed veins







Richard Brautigan,



I don’t care who you are fucking



in your clean California air







I just don’t care







though mine are more beautiful anyway



(though more complex perhaps)







and we have white flowers too



right over our window on 10th St.



like hands that mark tiny x’s



across infinity day by day







but even this crumb of life



I eventually surface toward



continues to nod as if I see you all



thoughtlessly



through a carefully inverted piece



of tainted glass







shattered in heaven



and found on these streets









