Letter From High Street #1

you reach the future that you said
was not there.
But it was. It is.
The future like a telescope an unfolding silk panel
an infinite origami flower
the cut-glass of a trillion trillion suns.
The future will be, until it isn't.
You will be, until you aren't.
Then what.
No more face in the mirror but
no more orgasms either.
I'm afraid too you know.
When I hear the wind whispering her name
along the frozen river banks,
over and over, I'm afraid.
Because I know it's not the wind
it's me talking out loud again.
The Future; as if.
Just over that rise, it is.
Even though
that light is coming from a star
dead so long
we cannot imagine what it lived through. Ever.
No future.
But here it is.
And here you are. And me.
Waiting for oblivion; but, maybe,
just one more coffee,
first, yeah?
Right now
I want ice cream and poetry and espresso
and the 10,000 unbelievable girlbodies
I see everyday.
FuckinAplus. It's a kind of Death,
somehow, this life.
Isn't it?

Drink up
it's the last call
better drink up I say
fuck me Lady Gaga No fuck you
I'm poetry's original fool
Come sit on my dunce cap why
don't you
I'm almost 60, pretty much done for
a dead man writing
poems for hot asses
and the furtherance of the High Lyric Mode
I am so not intellectual
just the latest thing in fashionable stanzas
So drink it up
it's the Last Call, believe me
and believe me,
this is so not

Who could not be Goth
whose childhood was shaped, deep in the fifties,
by old school Catholicism,
the woodcuts of Wanda Gag from the Bros. Grimm,
and all those cobalt winters
that mirrored them
with windows covered in ice on the inside,
the house cut off from the world
by wind and snow and the Dore Bible;
and reading the eerie Martian tales of E. R. Burroughs
leafing through the unnerving pictures of Breughel,
all mixed in
with wolf spiders
and alligators
and dead birds in the cellar
and a father
whose very prescence
was an event of pure terror?
I am Goth to bhe rotting bone.
And so are you'f, I know ---
with your powdered pallor,
your deathblack hair,
and your unbearably exquisite, doll-like surface.
It is so good
to be Goth,
and it is so good, for me,
that you look
so Goth.

  this scratching
across the nothingness, words
going insane
the opium of silence
exhaling blue alphabets
in a stainless steel cafe of the mind
because death
not poetry after all
glissando of streetcorners
black plastic
torn velvet waifs
staring from darkened doorways
a neon ghost kneeling
white nights in plate glass
the increasing gravity
of steam
old typewriters
my hands crackle in the streets
like snow on Mercury
reflecting these stanzas
like distress signals from a far galaxy
calling me home
to the sound
of Japanese no-wave jazz
contortions of tin cans
loose wires
negatives of radio static
becoming voices
and eyelashes meeting

creakings. rustlings, rattles.
gauze on gauze
skin of cooling metal
phrases crashing into themselves
of cities
molten silver
gutterals of dogs
I am
the language
you speak
a rain that flashes on
and off
a series of misplaced tropes
and Death
after all
not Orpheus
and the cries of old people
alone in their rooms forever at
the kitchen windows of the universe,
faces in headlights
between hope and despair.

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