1117

oh jack i’ve finally come
to fully know your holy sorrow –

to be torn so desperate
between town and city,
how i hated to leave her there,
crying for her family
such blessed tears
to return to my own;

missed the train anyway,
should have stayed
if for but
a few more moments;
seventy-fifth down broadway
and to eighth,
past central park
and holy times square
in such a hurried panic,
where i sit here once again
as i did after ginsberg
on the concourse floor
of penn station
with empty christmas
carols playing;

my track’s been called
and i scurry with the rats,
hesitant lest i forget
my last thoughts,
intended transcriptions;

my head sore from bourbon
and too many cigarettes,
but even more my heart
as i left her there
on the couch
of the suite
of the beacon motel,
room eleven seventeen;

the train undulates
side to side,
a dance without a partner,
no ma rainey’s here –
everybody bumps
without even
knowing a name;

home for the holidays
a journey insincere,
when all i want
is an intimate love;
lights of passing cities
illumined with
the grandeur of runways
as i sit beside
a sad mestiza,
does she wonder
or care
what words i write
and if it concerns her,
i wouldn’t even think
to make her
like sal might think
or neal would do;

pass the empty streets
with hollow lamps,
so more holy
than plastic bulbs
with tinseled boughs
and gifts beneath;

jack to you i write
of sorrows confessed,
no more a god of my own;
by some mystery
a part of your spirit
has found its way
within me.

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