i had yet to pass a night
as a dreamless man,
i never thought to dream -
i always thought dreaming
was a waste of time...
yet.... i always...
i managed to convince
myself...
to somehow dream...
the foxes would satiate
their longing,
the dogs would bark...
not that i didn't
want, to dream
but because i could't...
even if i could, the dreams?
would you want
to be stuck digesting a Kandinsky
for 356 days per
365 years?!
the exhaled brovado
of expected: expectation...
that's why so much of poetry
these days is:
bound to -
the exasperated breath of
the finicky punctuation marker
posit of a performance...
cum the Bolshoi!
there's no ballet in it, though...
there's just this rippling crust
of...
if anything...
this little bit of "anything"
is not to be made into
performance "art"...
pass along... pass by...
watch the traffic...
watch the pigeons pecker and perch
on extensions of the worth
of an hour...
and... it will always have to end
up being a new york story
somehow...
send me the postcard:
send all your love...
save all your: wish you were
here's...
honestly?
the last place i want to be
found either dead or alive...
if new york...
i want to resolve to a year's worth
of presence... where
jazz is a nostalgia...
and nostalgia is the radio...
when i can christen myself
around the voices bound
to the zephyr winds,,,,
who foretell the old and ancient...
readied for the sarcasm and ridicule
of the modern men;
then again...
it would be nice to have
someone to watch me tire,
to fall asleep...
that runaway jazz quintet -
so much more than
what the verdi orchestra would /
could ever allow...
cosmopolitan, via:
have i asked?
forget about asking, come 2019
if it's only worth a remembering...
i had to escape
playing a violin by fine tuning
the fiddle of juxtaposing the beard
with an itchy doodle index and thumb
signature of holding a quill;
by god...
not one carrier pigeon flew
that day... with either postcard
or a stamped envelope hush hush.