sex tour
america--
always the same grind.
eden a bust,
raw genesis
come and gone
I'm
set to travel
but hucksters whore the air
waves.
it's buy me this, buy me
that
where to now,
now that we've screwed
the country?
running
off at the mouth
to a foreign woman,
maybe venice.
in winter her civil canals
spillover, slap back the labyrinth
of street names, the language that wants
to
straighten things out
who was it
who said we can drive the boat but not the ocean
in
summer
the rialto a
harbor
clogged with
bodies.
I pass a fat
bobbing one
sweating
canal stink,
waterlogged
her flashy skirt of ships
I pass another who drags bottom
under the
grip/weight of purchase,
drifts back
into
the labyrinth,
moored to
his wife
or
else to paris
to
knock tourist boots, walking the concrete banks of the seine
dry
wine and bread,
the blood red words of rimbaud-- can these resurrect
a
poet
or have we so sickened
the
voice?
its gut soundings
wrenched from the world text
that no mangod will walk here
so much
romantic
debris
floating
by( e )[I]
and river poems, I mean, bore the shit out of me
anyway, why bitch?
everywhere it's
the same rundown.
I just want some, know what I'm sayin '?
some bubbly ass
on the boulevard,
that pellmell
wiggle
to get my logos
up
I'm ready to talk money
but the zealots say she was created for us,
just
like that,
in a garden--
free