A Plea

 

I plead my immense fatigue to subdue

Me like the dragon beseeching Saint George

To grow from his fertilized, defeated body a kingdom on the banks

Of the Lethe River and graceful oblivion models will trot beside it

Adorning a wreath of witless smiles.

 

 

Times Square: Heatwave Noon

 

Put on your flip-flops.

The sky is broken. You’ll get hurt.

The kid doesn’t get broken

Metaphors. He’ll get hurt.

The cut will get infected. He

Will turn into a guru on fifth.

Or into a handicap.

Whichever comes first.

Meanwhile celestial angels

Are trampled on with earthly boots

Trying to pick up the pieces

Amidst the throngs of feet with their cups

To go to go to go, go on

In the square of times. The boss won’t wait.

Nor will the king of beasts

Splattered on a sky scraper

Blinding those who walk in great

Auroras, dissolving the throne

Of the king of kings about

To crash on their heads

While dangling with his last bit of strength

In silent screams and a menacing

Poker face

On a hand atop

Times Square.

And now at the MOMA: a festival

Of Buster Keaton and silent

Films.

 

 

Translated by Natalie Feinstein