(Marc Jacobs to the West Village.)
A stop before a sign is one way to go.
When time is up, you’ll be history.
Name your poison, said the barkeep.
Fear and trembling, I responded. And Netflix.
A priest, a rabbi and a minister walk into a wall.
Who, if I cried out, would hear me on
the escalator to the 7 Train?
The grenade launch went quite well,
don’t you think?
Sweetheart, one day all this will be tours.
(Marc Jacobs to the West Village.)
When trouble farts, you can smell it.
If your number’s up, you’re not in Australia.
Sleep tight, dearest drunk.
Officer, arrest that Spam!
Hope he fries.
Your cautious hit man uses a Bunsen burner.
What did the linoleum square say?
One day all this will be floors.
One day? All this
will be floors.
As She Crosses
A street wide as that leather belt
she wished she didn’t own – it’s
not her she’s not a leather belt
crossing when an elephant-trunk
foreign sweeps her calves making
her start for it’s a danger to cross
anyone and yes we took a vote to
that French café on Seventh for
a night out as we couldn’t take it
for a night in least not in a way
you could wrap your head around
if your head were Turkish as a
towel as she crosses the street
which could be a lane though
she sees a trunk of steam toddling
after a screamer trunk a shriek
of fasteners murmur of paper clips
murder of scratch pads brace of
staples flock of Bics clattering
of push pins a creamer coalition
and a lullaby of Broadway which
will be crossed but what puzzles
as she sets a foot, most likely her
own, off the curb is a taxi nudging
ornaments of someone’s girlhood
her unpacked friends consider
common is she has wings and
lifts off when thunderous joy of
sorrow as felt by two elephants
reunited after years of cruelty and
separation, search for the You-Tubes,
crosses its loopy shadow on her
path about which we’d expostulate
but look there, she is so happy so
very happy with her head in the
clouds and her feet nearly nearby.
