This is their town
Far from trays with saucers
And plates and spoons and forks
(Sometimes hardened in scalloped potatoes
Or bent) and knives and glasses
(Glasses sometime with folded bread inside)...
But forever coming down the belt for the
Dumping and washing...the trays that disappear
In a square hole and come out clean
Will continue regardless if I am there.
Men fuck virgins; a child-worker
Is born and all is holy.
There is nothing great to trouble me:
The rains that drop and drift next
To streets in gutters, take away
Smashed Pepsi cups and beer cans
Without intent, bound God knows where,
But out of sight.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-
The San Franciscan's Night Meditations
When I am at a dead-lock
In your rear and the
language of my body
Will not come from
The third element of the soul,
What am I to say?--
'ALL BUT ONE DEAD:
Mexican immigrants celebrating the
Stowing away on a 120 degree boxcar
With urine in their stomachs,
Acknowledging capitalistic thirsts...
Sigue sobre pagina".
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