He was living in America, the same old same old,
Setting fire to dry sticks beneath the bath of Rimbaud.
Nylon cuttings from under the archways of Reverdy,
Spirit blue flames like idiots, run down the lane after us
Reminding me more of our final meeting with the great and powerful.
Pay no attention to the man behind the lost, wax cast, The Archeologists.
He always felt more like an architect, an undercover croupier,
Imparting our poetic ellipsis out from Governors Island
His offerings always teeming with other forms, the factory queers,
The triple crown, the edges of these lacustrine cities catching the light (duh)
His signature gleams. I tried to steal how he switches back
Into deadly commentary and abuse of his own verse.
This morning the staircase behind the arabesque wall opened up,
Further tiles were set with maze and minotaur emoji’s.
‘Pop’ does not mean empty. More refraction of light in leading the vowels.
I dreamed of stumbling on his exquisitely whacked,
Private seeming notes, brown pocketbook in oblique erasure.
Traces of the madrigals asleep, tickled out from underneath,
Days when having a holograph cranked by The Poets Press
Felt like printing dollar bills (by any means necessary)
Come back tomorrow and I’ll have forms for you