THE THIRTEENTH (13/10/1992)

elliot — Fri, 27 Oct 2006 18:36:51 -0500

Once you've lit it, don't go back
To the town of age.
Women strangle storks,
One with an eyepatch,
One in a musical landscape.
Tribes of gendarmes,
Gripping, cheap and funky,
Stroll the streets of polecats.

(In a sensible second:
A winged man at the window;
A giant child tapping
Insistently on my bedded shoulder;
A motorcycle resting
On the bridge of a nose.)

Imagine a biped walking
With hands in pockets,
Not
Thinking
For six months,
Waiting for his vocation,
Coming to his dreams.
Thinking of a woman
Indifferently. A kind smile
For everyone, he spends time,
He spends money.
He has a surplus of affection
Which he spends on his words.
He lives in the town of age
And loves the town.
He thinks he's sleek,
Listens to fur, watches policemen
Round up the women,
One with a patch,
One with a stork.
He cheers before he leaves,
Sensible as breakfast.

Note: I performed this one at a poetry reading.

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THE THIRTEENTH (13/10/1992)