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In the soft shoe of morning, I walk.
Each gusty wind brings aromas of coffee beans
and gasoline. My black plum hunger will not subside
on the path to Victory Kitchen.

In the paper is Elian. He plays toy soldiers, dreams
of corrupted beauty and Marisleysis
And she of him.

O if all we could find were declarations of love on the breakfast table.
The morning is adrift.
If all we see were the singular face to satisfy all desire

face without lip-gloss but Truth,
then this morning would walk with heavy boot,
with purpose, force and ideas to float me from bed
but which are so heavy as to weigh down my ascension
to sky scraping dungeons of egotism, formalism, catyclismic
ism.

Just keep it low,
real down low morning
when all dreams are wet frow dew
but dirty still.

Brown apple cores and Camel butts present themselves
like tumbleweeds tumbling down the street.
This garbage flies like ballet
and leaves the faint stain of humankind on this, my desert place,
asphalt between brick palaces like space between starlight.
But I need not wonder about life here. I know we are here

but only sleeping.


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Free Williamsburg | 93 Berry Street | Brooklyn, NY 11211
[email protected] | May 2000 | Volume 5