Recollections from a Room in Bloomingdale, D.C.


Ceiling fan splaying out,
hand mirror (what is seen),
wet and dry in even hope,
Bob Dylan’s 115th dream
(New Morning).

Find the washcloth in hamper,
telephones have since been tampered,
digging for essential finds,
the currency of correct answers.

Recurring themes are mental cancers;
two weeks can be romantic
after a family from Willimantic.
Who are you to be enchanted?

(Or, who even are you?)

Understanding rhythm;
Siedel, Masters— 
panting,
singing rhymin’ Simon,
falling now is landing.

Mangled by the steel frame,
or the iron workers union:
give your mind here, 
and your soul as for communion.

Fucking D.C. taxes,
this building’s aromatic,
slanting, 
falling down— 
your body is fantastic.

How is being cool when you’re never lukewarm about it?
Hours failed to rest,
underneath the truck was lousy.

Weeping, whistling angels,
Whistler, Pollock, halos,
all around a ravine
where a cemetery screams.

A tombstone is a verse
that says all of what we can’t,
and the entire State of New York
says 
“Return unto my hands.”