Peter mentioned it, Em and Woody get on board.
Let’s go
spread out like patient, half-deserted streets.
The women come: O Michaelangelo,
licked, lingered, let fall,
slipped along the street,
rubbing faces
that you murder.
The women come: O Michelangelo!
Do I dare turn back,
descend the hair—
morning coat, my collar, the chin,
my necktie, arms and legs—
Do I dare
spit out the butt,
Bare in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!
Its perfume
that makes me
lie along a table.
Should I begin?
I go at dusk through narrow smoke,
rise from the lonely men in shirt-sleeves,
scuttling across the floors,
smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or
should I force the moment to its crisis?
My head grown slightly great,
the great flicker
among some talk of you and me—
swell, start a scene or two,
an easy tool,
glad to be of use,
a bit obtuse
at times, almost ridiculous—
the bottoms
blown back,
blows the white
till we drown.
