1925-2009
Waiting for Hours
listen, kid,there isn't anything but art
and the effort to turn it into
the same discourse as
everything else is
scientific
anfelism, disguised as
who-dun-it after all
on art, I'm a kind of
Fibber McGee and Molly
talkin' over the horseshoe
found in 1901--and should
I find three more, we
could have a game in
the backyard--close
the closet, undisturbed by
the ten-foot pole we
wouldn't touch anything
by, if offered--oh--
the hours remind me of
thirty robins' dreams,
snowflakes as big as cigarette
papers
the best thing ever said about me
critically was 'alien exotica'
but I looked out of my eyes at
the piano shawl and wondered
how the fringe could move so
ceaselessly over the fat back
and that was supposed to stop me
dead in my tracks--my job--my
heart--and anything I ever told you
that you believed--wow--magic
and disgusting fun people, also
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