Approaching Station,
Exit to left,
Passes please,
Discounted and undiscovered,
Are the tracks still broken?
Hand loosing it's grip,
As the content contentment,
Starts to rise,
Dreamers can't have dreams,
When passed oot,
Trying to shake,
Tattooed faces,
Security let's it go,
When glasses cant stop staring,
An angel with Diamondback wings,
Trying her best to keep it all together,
While puting on shoes,
That aren't on her feet,
Rushing to the other car she saves another soul,
Central ave,
Centralized humility with mangled humanity,
He's alive,
But rarely living,
Loved,
But wondering where it is,
Art district and,
**** I've listened to this song too many times,
Poetry on rails,
******* railed by poetry,
Glasses terrified by realness,
They all deserve better,
Would they know what to do with it?
Exit to left,
The angel let's her sister go,
The door closes,
She checks,
The rail only has so many stops,
It's quiet,
The significance of the moment,
Discovered then discarded,
She's asleep.
He's not waking up,
She leaves,
Approaching station.
1st ave,
Passes please.

My Night with Art Garfunkel


some years back wrote a poem titled
My Night with Paul Simon,^
so it seems that in time,
this his companion’s piece would find me,
reaching its own due date, the timing right,
indeed, perceived, by the muses
that this one, the poet who cannot sing,
needs urgently another soft poet’s voice,
to come to me at night, and so it came to pass last night

a regaler, the teller of tales, both of us looking admiringly upon what was our youthful appearance that only we see in a vintage Murano mirror

the where the why, no matter, just two NYC boys
in their declining years reminiscing about growing up
in Queens, telling tales with no need for exaggeration,
too old for that, for old men lying is always sadder than sad and the truthful stories are not stories, but harmonies

the voices are worn soft, the worse for wear, and the velveteen
is two shaded where usage has reduced the weave, and sunlight has discolored but not discouraged the aging agents

we exchange verses, the swapping of our ****** fluids,
I do not share my prior pope paul adventure,
a separate but now equalized recording

he signs his new book for me,
full of reminisce and new verses

and I am thinking
Art for art’s sake, or art for Art’s sake
or both

wistful higher and higher notes that can longer be reached
of no consequence,
for the body is the work and the work is from the body

let’s take a selfie I ask, but a polite demurral hints of better a preference remembrance of things the way they were, in the past, but I snap a quick photo and it resides on a Facebook entry, unless the muses deleted it without telling me

(which they do quite frequently,
hoarding the best I made all for their elusives elfish selfish-selves)^^


Dec 5, 2017 10:20pm

<•>
^
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/387251/my-night-with-paul-simon/

June 2013

^^
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/747333/the-elusives/

June 2014