by Jack Morgan
There are great reasons
to run from
musicians with lost eyes,
especially ones
who play on strings.
There are many reasons
to rip from your fathers fists,
something worth respecting
somewhere down lines,
after cocaine fades,
cigarettes stop smoldering
tea-stained table-cloths
in coffee-shops.
There are plenty of reasons
to strip and distrust
the particulate, the ether,
the theories, the themes
of every thief.
Every thief
is much more
than moldy gypsy
mothers at Laundromats,
the Mathew Arnolds,
the Andrew Marvel doormats
we'll thaw a thousand times
in this heat,
the metropolis,
the mother-earth.
There are so many reasons
to say good-bye to
detritus and dust
and the drifters,
the dirty travellers,
the people we wish we were
but thank the president we're not.
And I,
there are several reasons to forget me,
to throw my memory of skin-cells
to the ghostly dogs,
the growling pets
of salvation and salivary meanderings,
the bassist, the drummer,
the glowing dots,
the server room,
and the mustard seed,
am not saying that this
will ever be it,
or that the theoretical future
will ever be missed
more or as much
as the wires, the oars,
the water, the stream,
and the road, the reasons,
the cocaine, the cigarettes.
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