untitledHow can we say that we know life,
When this drink in which we partake
Is poisonous so,
Turning all roses to weeds,
Our rosaries to garottes,
These vines to hands, made to seek
While we poor widows weep.
Why should we beat against this turgid shore
with dry rafts of driftwood and weeds,
When all we know is dangerous
And all we'd know is the cold,
Cold summer, under these rapid skies,
Under these vapid cries
And those heaving sighs-
Under this dead Manhattan sky,
I walk three steps from the car, under this summer sky,
Under this summer's starry skies,
Lit up in crimson, tyrian and gold,
As we light up with white BIC lighters,
As the hum of the neon-red vacancy sign
Drowns out the din of our cries.
In this valley of dry voices,
This valley of dry voices and of a clear rain.
When you were youngWe gather en masse on a dry shore,
A sea of dead grass and thorns,
at the dry banks
And the doorway of a liquor store.
Huddled close in this ashen
Land, we 3 plague doctors,
kings, Our black cloaks, silken, shimmering,
Draped, swooping down like the raven
About to croak-
Nevermind and nevermore,
All that we had to offer.
And we would not speak, nod, or acknowledge one another.
We would not speak.
When you were young,
Hidden, blinded by porcelain facades,
Like white gauze, tied up in a bow,
As miles and miles below,
The words, all of which we'd know
To write and say and tell them where to go,
None of which, I know which to say, or where to speak,
Or rhyme in time, to place-
All tied together with white gauze,
Wrapped tightly in a bow.
Here too, the words, all we had to offer,
Were more than enough But they would not come.
And still we would not speak.
Through shuttered eyes I cannot see
With sunken eyes, I'd strain to see
The hyacinths by the beach,
With my own eyes, I dare to see