by Dante Rosati
SONG OF THE ONE
As the many wait in line
to be the latest illusion,
the One sits in the gutter
with flashing eyes.
The Many spit on the One,
or throw him a quarter.
The One is all smiles,
his hair is tangled and wild.
On insular street corners
strollers pause, listening
to preaching from the deepest subways,
the soles of their feet pressed firmly
against the soles of their shoes, sliding
glassily from life into death.
A concrete face
that lifts the sidewalk from the street
is marked by dried oil
and particles of rubber.
It is here that the One
makes his abode and receives
his visitors.
With easy demeanor and
graciousness of speech,
the One holds court to all comers.
To this a kind word,
to that an harsh;
no respecter of persons, he,
only a witness for the prosecution.
Song:
"Though my bedroll is tied,
and my jacket pockets
are full of cigarettes,
there is nowhere I need to go.
Though I see through
cages, bars and cuffs,
it seems there's no one
at home below.
On rainy days your feet get wet,
when it's hot your scalp may fry.
It seems that now that we've just met,
it's time for us to die.
Good-bye,
watch the closing doors,
good-bye."
MADISON AVENUE
The crafted sidewalk strikes out against
all manner of indolence,
and retching can be heard just around the corner.
Why is it, then, that no conclusions are forthcoming?
Perhaps the many manacled subway riders can await death
with the kind of expectations
that usually accompany the World Series.
For me only the perturbations of sandstone buttes with suffice.
It wasn't long ago that we could look forward
to various diversions that might perk up
an otherwise drab ebullience.
Now it is all we can do to survive yet another ecstasy.
"Another ecstasy,
another dollar."
(smoke rises from the putrid cigar,
the fat belly trembles)
"Let's fuck their brains
with endless games
of gain,
beauty,
fame."
Near the Confluence,
a bit of ancient rock is split by a raindrop.
UNDERFOOT
Under the streets
are men who balance
despair and exaltation.
(The pipes and wires
are interwoven:
black is meshed with red,
white and green curl throughout.
Open your chest,
and allow the slow gray
atmosphere
to enter you.)
Under the street,
inside the asphalt,
amidst half fused particles
of tar and pebbles, pressed
and tired,
are men who balance
despair and exaltation.
A CHORUS LINE
Down the street come the fur clad women
arm-in-arm, seven abreast,
golden nose rings jangling.
Singing of their tans,
of the coming week-end in the Hamptons.
They smile a tight smile at the hired help,
and secretly lament the tide of minority interlopers
who tread upon their dream.
They are lawyers,
their husbands are bankers,
their children will be doctors,
their pets are carnivorous to excess.
Some are frigid,
but others have cavernous vaginas
that know no mercy.
The delivery boys at D'agostino's know them well.
MASS WASTING
Clouds of rancid
incense choke
ancient widows
who dutifully offer their mite
for the Bishop's vacation.
On the blood-soaked alter,
below a fetish
representing a corpse
nailed to a tree,
a pink and plump cherubim,
guilt vested,
advises the congregation
to more faithfully imitate
St. Francis.
In the back pew, I gladly exude a billow of flatulence
which, presumably, ascends to tarry in the supreme recesses
of the vaulting.
I exit in mid incantation.
Outside,
a street- dweller spits out a tooth
and wipes green slime from his nose:
"Spareaquarter?"
Without looking at him,
I pass quickly by
and am swallowed into the din of traffic.