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| Anselm Berrigan [pic courtesy of The Multifarious Array] |
April
frigging 6
Meat
pies delivered daily from
tuck
shop the chalkboard
improvisionally
utters to a
chump's
eye. Somewhere in
the
thick of the grip of the
shit
that must be said to be
gotten
out of the way. Can I
sit
in your lap and watch
kitty
videos? No, I have to
go
to work. Can I go to
work
with you? We can
walk
outside together.
Earlier
I felt — how's that
radiation
going — like
a
— I misheard that,
now
they are saying
things
like "she's a
new
girl" — bartender
&
medical worker of
other
type — I felt
like
an old creep making
younger
wobbly guys
give
me their opinions
on
things: "he had all
these
great lines! & then
they
just kept coming one
after
the other & it started
to
make me crazy." Look
of
indignation on early
morning
L train face.
Inside
that recreation
a
phone rang. I did
not
ignore the phone
but
I did ignore the call.
This
afuturistic handling
of
little pads, first aid
for
choking, and yet the
company
came with dog
&
I moved, no, was.
Don't
be coming over to join me
this
bird says, you hover and
take
up shade, you simplify
into
unwinged liftoff, you
bear
scars of an individually
unremarkable
nature, you stop
nothing.
I'll stay here without
joining
you, I say, and create
as
little energy in your vicinity
as
I can disimagine. Fuck you
and
your disimagination, this
bird,
now beginning to resemble
Allen
Ginsberg, yells at me.
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