A pariah dog, a flatiron, a glass-fronted cross-hatching, the city’s asleep and sleeps like a log. It’s riverside park 3 AM and the city’s fading with no bang clang west poetry. For real. Not a single tune. Neither a howling dog. No shout, no god, no host stuck in an antique comb, no falling prayers and no healthy watch. So i walk along the river and the driven mad man is there with his shined shoes and his lady-killer’s felt hat on his head. Says nothing, mumbles something, looks like he has been told. And he says and i say and i don’t know which train will be taken anymore. He says. I say. That’s it, i’m the chosen one. Right. Who fucks you up with my blackpoems, on and on. Who contributes to the giant joke. I’m one of them, look at my first shots, bang bang, north, east, the city’s asleep, look up, i’m here, ouch, what’s on? I read your poems, you motherfucker, and dig in to the skin, and i’m part of that shit, wandering the streets and the sixties and the fifth floor, with your sunglasses, sitting on the stairs next to the marble fountain. Waiting at your door. Wasn’t born too late, knockout, 1964, trash south. I write words on each knee that kill. On shore with Langston Hugues my soul has grown deep like the rivers. Woe.