A sat alone piece. The novel insert.
Troubled lender. Unsent. A remarked
upon, turning phrase, immemorial.
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.
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
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
to watch the picture with