Haiku D'estat - Staten Island Ferry Wake,1984
This Sunday of ice cream cones
the locals cruise for a dime.
Pigeons here or there peck pretzels
thrown down. New in town
I read these indifferent faces,
news from Sunday frowns.
Last night's drinks were on you and
old friends. Felt like I had skin again
when a certain rub made wonder but
sleeping it off on your floor I woke up
screaming, dreaming death with a bloody nose.
If you wore nylons I could kiss you. I'm confused,
infused vagrant blood refuses no stops, lust cops
wait in dark glasses near darker doors to bust.
I've managed before. Two black coffees
and the shakes, bad. I pack enough clean
clothes for a sidewalk or two. Now I
find myself here in this somewhere floating
toward some shore altogether too familiar
(the dream again) while families squeal,
their cameras pointed at Lady Liberty, licking
noisily their cones, an altogether painful thing
to watch and remembering you naked, too.
I've paid my quarter to get to the other side
even if I get there blue.
Were we talking about rabbit punches
last night, the blank, blond faces
of Stockholm? Which drinks were free?
The dream tells me little except I was (am)
scared and hate this body I'm in.
I'd lose it all but for this one voice here.
Funny, the thought of revival when one touches
another skin. Some god I've believed in but
rarely put to test. I'm going home to rest.
See you tomorrow. Phone me first.
Sudden moment when the ferry horn blasts:
Someone, some kid, is
crying now. Dropped his
cone into the cold, cold sea.
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
George Gordon Byron
(22 January 1788 – 19 April 1824)
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(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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