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
On a hand atop
And now at the MOMA: a festival
Of Buster Keaton and silent
Translated by Natalie Feinstein