Skinless on the wet sidewalks of Times Square,
He hustled to survive, an abused kid.
On perilous Christopher Street pier,
Its urine-smelling shadows,
Where men’s hungry lips traced lines
down men’s lonely bellies,
He could breathe the freedom of birds.
down men’s lonely bellies,
He could breathe the freedom of birds.
On the warehouse loading dock on the Hudson,
He drank a coffee from the Silver Dollar.
He drank a coffee from the Silver Dollar.
And read Funeral Rites
under the swamp-yellow glow,
Headlights moved across a wall;
The ocean tested the rotting pier posts;
Tin doors complained out loud like seagulls;
His Marcel Duchamp was flaking off the wall;
A rock had holed Rimbaud’s face on a window;
The place was dying like secret hobo railyard lore.
The reel behind his stoned eyeballs saw
A junkie saviour serene above criminal Saint Genet.
He could teach Jesus to be serious
About the least of his brothers.
About the least of his brothers.
