Speaking you
it was my mestiny
Rolling in a trickle, ash bent to burn,
four free men sorted out on a free afternoon

And in the Village
fire papers cascade into the square

I was so taken with you my
dick forgot to behave

Four three men sat past you
“Will I lose my dignity?
Will I lose my hair?”

They, the guardians of Pook Hill, bewitched the lowering veal calf
Disguised as the voice
Too wit, too wow
You’re the greatest dancer

The life exeunts from fate, what’s left
is mestiny,
that which the state holds back from exception

It gives the moral inspiracy a ladder might,
to a puddle that looks up, your heel in its crotch
from Flatland to the sudden curve
of your ass, dude
and the winter skies beyond
They, the Robin Goodfellows of Tompkins Square
inflected by the fees
of a ordering ATMocracy
can be generou$
from this nightmare