As the cold takes its first length
of claw to the back of my neck,
I steal a last look at my reflection,
cast through dark sunglasses;
the extremity, phone-booth
cigarette glow castrates
interminably the light
behind these Modigliani eyes.
I slip out, receiver down, between
shards of rain, into the ceilidh
of the street instigated by
the auspicious deal-making of sirens
with the rapid beating of the strip.
With a face in barbarian tribute,
I walk a film epic gait, without
any weakening of the spirit
- my stance is preposterous
as I slip in prevalence around
silver, gleaming death machines.
They turn wheels into their slides,
laces spry about my ankles,
at once mock at and traduce whilst
free from muteness and retreat;
steerers go foetal in their seats,
framed in primetime terror.
Alligators: their meat is considered
a delicacy. The collective envisage
a body in the road,
strewn in grisly attitudes,
for the power of the dead is
they see you all the time,
as a voyeur inflicts introspection
amongst complacent hosts.
Emitting phrases of interest
at the back of my stride
that neither blocks nor coarsens,
they signal onward in an
empty, corporate way, wonder
why they were all so afraid.
As the length of my line
is somewhat determined by
the width of my page, I come
to rest, as a religious zealot
who kills for the closed logic
of belief, I yell finally,
“Late Edition, Herald Tribune!”