aayounghis soul was the river thames
during the 18th century
floating fetid
full of shite
diseases
corpses and bloat
his mouth was a hellscape
hieronymus bosch’s
early work
his voice was the sound
of two bullet trains colliding
his face
strongly suggested
the need for burial
and yet i stupidly
loved him
the way one comes to love
an old dog
three-legged
one-eyed
who frequently pisses the rug
you smile from time to time remembering him
but how glad you are he’s gone
this morning my heart wishes to emerge
from my red door
having my feet
find a cobblestone street
in London
on another day it would be old Bombay
or the day
i waved goodbye
to Powhatan
my mind has remembered
what i was before time began
mistress of her own molecules
now my soul is insistent
upon traveling backward
*For John Burroughs, peace to you, old friend.
my words
are
trying to avoid
Grub Street
perhaps a futile endeavor
oh
how the Moorfields
draw us back
it’s so easy
not to think
we are water
and follow
the path of least
resistance
juicy rationalizations
plucked as grapes
off waiting vines
is it better to be a thug
than a thief?
why be either?
is there anyone left who measures honor?
however
i would prefer that
to being
a hack
i take out
my subway map