The kindly night has taken in
this body, pestered as it is
with drink.
A radio is playing out in the street,
and the brain in the body is beginning to think
of Buster Keaton
jumping through a window,
or riding the side-rods
of a train.
His face unchanged by decades’ grim duty.
His famous hat doffed between the wars.
After a day spent attempting to impress
those good-looking girls who were not impressed
I would retreat into the company of boys
and drink,
and on one such night, sitting on a friend’s bed
blowing smoke at giant moths
driven mad with the light, I gulped down
a pint of cognac,
and by the fourth or fifth time that I fell off my bike
in the dark, I truly believed that I had, at last,
grasped the meaning of the word
sublimation.
Early enough to hear the light
whispering like a lover to the dawn
I cross the street, evading Messalina’s grip,
and find the pavement is already sick
with pigeons, going at each other
over scraps of bread
scattered at the feet of Christ (possibly)
who looks as though he hasn’t slept
since all that Gethsemane business.
And holding, like a sheriff’s badge
his can of Special Brew, he stumbles
away, begging the air’s forgiveness.
[ because you know ]
[ this is too beautiful ]
[ to try ]
