He came back and shot. He shot him. When he came
back, he shot, and he fell, stumbling, past the
shadow wood, down, shot, dying, dead, to full halt.
Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
'A closed window looks down
on a dirty courtyard, and Black people
call across or scream across or walk across
A political art, let it be
tenderness, low strings the fingers
touch, or the width of autumn
If you ever find
yourself, some where
lost and surrounded
Who has ever stopped to think of the divinity of Lamont Cranston?
(Only jack Kerouac, that I know of: & me.
The rest of you probably had on WCBS and Kate Smith,
Where ever something breathes
Heart beating the rise and fall
Of mountains, the waves upon the sky
In the south, sleeping against
the drugstore, growling under
the trucks and stoves, stumbling