A white hot sidewalk
opened up to me today at
Rockefeller Center, in a
place where no miracle could occur a
blistered carpet removed from a
concourse closet was unrolled,
seducing to usher me to glory,
to the hot shine of responsibility,
to the houses I’ve known and the
homes that remain strangers.
There is a blister in every
second of my life’s work, a
coarse firmament that fits like a
skull over baldly hot deposits of
this body’s tainted waste water.
I dream that deep columns of pus
ejaculate from my legs and armpits.
I fade to an un-proud sac of
tumescent liquid and rotting bone when the
horizon of retroactive loneliness
swallows my beautiful day.
The moment sold for a half-penny on the eyeball,
sold again for a half-dollar on the nervous tic,
then vanished into the choking toilet of
human beings skating on the
ice rink’s melted surface and
everywhere in the world.
