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BLUE COLLAR HOLIDAY Vanishing Point Depressed like cabin air & passing out peach-tinted hygiene manuals on westside highway I lead men on like the Virgil of the garment district: Now this lovely structure on your right is baby's jeans & a struggling pyramid of girls & oh well I understand his orphans with my gun like cinema verite shot through with lower-functioning inmates -- with the "inkings of Scandinavian malaise" & whatnot I go see art & feel priceless but to be a good sport you have to lose & lose value like junk bonds he likes to "sit back & watch 'em grow..." The Met stuffed with alabaster tits I left alone, sexy & mightily unDutch Mastered, set fire to a batik picture of Mother Chelsea the Pitiless who wasn't sickle- cell white & incontinent & Dia-funded I stood in his cloud shirt by myself cursed to stalk the night through all eternity & original so on through the small ballet company of stocking runs & upset nuns down Sixth Avenue, John Wieners, the Americas breaking apart so I can feel this sinuous & partial wind like lyme disease with a drip in the arm & the sky is falling. next |