the boy
the waterfront boy walks stalks careens
out from the waterfront dream, sleek, serene
fluid as the doves in droves or lepers in robes
strode stalked drove for the terminus the nightmare
the mission he'd taken, the unholy error
risen reasoned sharpened seasoned to a fine silk resin
of a mirth of mercy so encumbering so quiet
stalking striding flying, fervent flesh and sinew
like a baptist like a wild beast like a soldier dying
half a bottle of rum in the jacket shoulder
surely and silently upward like a harvest moons
anonymous lover, like a jackal like it's shadow
like a black lagoon creature, the ghost from the
waterfront 45 degrees westward and ten years beaten
a thousand feet out from the concrete forest tangle
a hundred reddening street lamp lights and a million
stark street bells, sleekly and silently the terminus
like an oath into the wind or heavy rain without reason
Alaskan, western, 1st avenue, 2nd..
I'm not new to this, I'm true to this..
3rd and cherry and over a block to james, to conceive
to delineate, yes, to derive to define to desire, divest
3rd then 4th, yes, it isn't my idea it was gifted, surrendered
it was spited me, yes, that color in the dream of the will of the night sea
the amplitude of time, sublime post-life messenger, up this hill calling reeling raising me
centuries of slow second stop motion clockwork, and another nip off the lip of the 80-proof liquor.
only 800 miles to the ivory coast, unendingly
into the twilight zone, the last land of make-believe
800 leagues out of the deepest deep, motherfucker
800 blocks 800 fathoms up into the sweet dark grandeur
the sheet, the sweet surrender, this night within which
you wove for yourself yes, like your own brother
10,000 eons, lightyears ago, 10,000 infernal screams
now climb that hill, do it, climb it now buddha
to find the thing that has yet to be, has never been found
to cherry and boren, to serenade the dead leaves
with every heartbeat, every cold calculated pulse
of impassioned resolve dissolving days innumerable
forgetting, counting nothing, no street no dark
seeing nothing into the courtyard seeing nothing
into the left corner, there kneeling whispers the
three syllabled syllabus of that midnight bower
and with the blade severs the face of it severs
the boy and the blood of manhood's reddest hour
