London plane trees flanking north and south
And to the west a fountain for the living
Faced off against a wall of gray fatigue,
A library the sun is pressed to coax into the light.On the taxed grass a summer flock. The pigeons
Have taken flight, driven off by idling hawks tethered
To the forearms of silent men. We are here now,
Drawing from the colorful bags our poisoned food,
One man talking on his cell phone out of his ass.A fire sale on snatches of conversation:
My mother was to meet me. When will she arrive?
Does she not know by now a man does not like to be
Kept waiting? Others illuminate the torrents
Of departed spring and drop an obliteration bomb
on flimsy concepts of uniqueness. They give me all this
Responsibility but no authority. Do you hear me,
Mon? Do you hear me?The swell of thick necks, the crotch well maintained, the
Necrophiliac tendencies of the book-guzzling few, the lists
That would ignore eternity. No, I will do you a deal.
How do you like that? You like it? Huh? Huh?Every day of the workweek I am here to burn off this prison
Pallor, on a mission to make my old flesh presentable to
The young. I have no walls to hide my own deceit, but my
Detachment from the Lord and Taylor windows works like
A shield. Whatever they install I just don’t see. One week
It’s a tank, another it’s Christmas in Berlin and then another
A garter belt is running down Fifth Avenue with no one in pursuit.I am hollowed out of everything but my sweet bed and the chronic
Grasping for a security beyond my reach, like the tall buildings
Seeking God while the planes right-angle through Times Square
As reckoning birds formatted for the evil touch.And then he kissed me. What else are we to say when Brother Love
Makes his entrance, magnifying the gift of the consecrated life
With the smell of shit from his billowing suit, his impenetrable
Glasses the forward thrust of a powerful mind and pigeon feathers
Laughing in triumph in the band of his fireproof hat.I am somebody, his signboard reads, a simple statement of his intent
To herald in the new world order and feed upon the rage that it provokes.Brother Love does not discuss the scorched earth policy for the
Outdoor cafes or the end of luminous days or the fear of one who is
Introduced to the desire for his own life in the stalled subway train,Nor does he ask the young to ponder the fate of an old tattoo or issue
Arrest warrants for the uncommitted blowing like abandoned
Papers through Manhattan streets.Brother Love raises me from the grass in broken parts and instructs
Me to make the object of my affection last and last. He says it’s
Time for me to learn to dance. His fierce face is surely in on this,
Disintegrating even seeds of argument in his midst.June 2003