don’t just be-bop

village grave deluxe

rent control is virtually

living free

gravity skirts the village so languid

I float in dispensation

moribund

I dance the dance of dalliance

I dance the dance of ages to the hammering

below

as four alchemists crack turtle-shells

they seek the perfect twin fragments

lady landlord collects a shattered currency

trying to arrange it serially

below

while night makes a move down seventh avenue south

three am traffic occludes

inexorable

night rolls down the window and gnarls a curse or two

turns off the radio and stretches back in his seat

he’s in for a long wait

two bagpipers stumble by back from a wedding gig

they must have inhaled more than they could swallow you see how bewildered the fumes escaping from their pipebags

drifting in to the nearest bar

confusion is at its best in the company of mixed drinks

717 steps away sleep three types of hunger on a bench in the park

gnawing thirst for oblivion

suppurating self-starvation of a second-guessing nature

and a festering famine for bad-news blankets

these new york times are not as putative as before

they hardly read the third wheel’s re-invention anymore

or did the century just turn?