Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Thoughts On My Way to My Job at a New York City Tabloid

The coiled regalia of a king fit for a dollar,

his high temple a twist in the body politic,

one nostril stuffed with a wad of cotton,

his neck pasta as his skin drips to the ground . . .

the rich suckle the rich, the poor wait,

but what bottle can fill with two liquids?

I think not when a dream detonates in a dream—

and with such misery I thank thanks for awakening.

Lonely like a lone spider in a rug, I sponge

semen from the sideboard and then lunch—

no, not stunned like a fish but still

packaged, the plush avenue frenzied and bloated,

a boy rousted by the king as he shelters his illness—

living, not in the sense of breath but need.


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