Struck In Limbo

A sat alone piece. The novel insert.
Troubled lender. Unsent. A remarked

upon, turning phrase, immemorial.
No-word-wasted. De-anthologized.

Settling out of the private, collective
subconscious. The veritas of cliche.

Book mark, standard-wearer, golden
standard. Moneyed shot. Credo. Motto.

Maxim. What you call it. Delilo wrote
them. Maybe Joseph? Sampled.


Stolen. A sat alone piece. The novel
excerpt. Shelved. Tabled. Drawered.


Below Broome St.

In these hours—too much slack.
In these hours, not enough “not enough”.

Choked child-bride; grunt-army-groom,
remembered shock (the heart on, up).

Filtered gilt portraits, blinds spilling late.
After antique lock/lighters enflame noon

generous scissors dance by a drab river-
view. A definite gripe against

finite balcony’s speech, unappearing—
the single-bed rest, on doubly malted lips.

Not to be Character, damned
we may seem.


Who was Phil Ochs and what did he
do about violence?

These type-questions come upon a forty-
fourth year, gradually.

I take them easy, try to give them in

when the horseshoe hits.

They wanted to embarrass Lincoln,
Kennedy, too. Suddenly,

suddenly I remember a Sinatra flick.
1954. One of the good ones.

Sterling Hayden was. A lummox.
Does anyone use that?

I suppose Abraham could, suppose
Jack could,

as well as someone with all that
bad luck would.

To know how it is. Suddenly, things
get away from you.

You start debating the hard-faith
actions, forgetting

to watch the picture with
Sterling Hayden.