The world is sick. We must not say so.
After all, a muzzle flashes, the world web burns,
we the people flash and burn,
and moreover my father told me as a boy,
in Cantonese, in good weather
do we find wood for the rain.
Now violet evening I feel it pouring
out of our eyes and mouth.
The twin Comcast tower is a drag,
and somewhere underground, a man
has an entire rotisserie chicken
to himself.
At 18th and Fed I run a five buck tab,
this tiny sardine my escapism,
chopped lettuce mayo anna pickle
I step outside to feel no trickle
but the tailwind of the double 17
think, "call 215 GET-A-CAB".
