Drip

An offer at Astor. Discounted
coffees for those who work with books.
City of Saints; Off of
the book I work as well
in a place
toward that city; This is
the little instance that I lack.

Relief. Listening through; An eyeball of
another; Listened to.
Background bells. Of din above,
conversation.
Inside conversation; Inside out
of it. The director? Guide. “Poet, I beseech
thee…”;
Is he dead? Yes? I see it now,
too—the open, empty mouth.

“Who are you? What do you do?
How much-ya’ take home?
When are you
going to be giving it all back?”
—Auto-inquisition, eternal; Stationing.

Memorial day to remember; How
long, how long, I had been forgotten!
Year of fated
dating. Only
what the non-repeating number will tell.

(L.W.) “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof
one must be silent”—Tell of me,
this confessional drip
is already on,
already inside, your newest
and if, and only if, abandoned,
sonic deathwish.

Soul Murder

A tradition. Unrelated narratives. A tradition.
Formal lineage and a family. Of that form.

Muted greens, yellows mutated. Muted
blues. Colors absent. Colors presiding—

Of what color is the color
of your parachute?
Of what color is the color
of your parachute’s

parachute? The color of enemy lines.

Behind enemy lines, the color of friendship.
Before. I go further back. Before. I hesitate, I

hesitate, I hesitate. Before. I go further back.

Before. I go on, ahead. Unrelated
narratives. A tradition.

Soul murder. Imagine hearing it.
Calling.
Soul murder. Imagine calling it.
Heard.

Muleskinner Blues

No one would have asked. Everybody
knows. He appeared. The nerve-gaul,

sheer chutzpah. To hump an American
flag. Glad it remains outrageous.

As he left the stage. Is that “the being lost”?
Zimmerman. Knowing outrage and not

having to ask? One hundred. And so
“the being” found? And forty ponds over.

He derived.