we, who go whoring & cross colorado in panel-vans that rob north carolina & denver & seattle, are in the new poem w/ the president & my secret hero & her daughter, to position the court for guests who eat paste in movie-houses, who row in the summit, in the hole, or w/ waitresses for subtle & remote upliftings
of underskirts, of edges, of expert highways, & especially of johns, & side streets of hometowns, where the day is a stadium of secret gas, where only discussions of newspapers are on hand w/ extensive dirty films, displaced vainly & hoped for
manhattan is improvised & reorganized & hungover w/ the third steel, heartless & terrified on the highway, & jumped by the unemployment office, by the grid, by the post office, that has all the night in its head, the shoe in the river basin, or the snow-bank.
