I am riding in the cab
and I watch the wrinkles at the driver’s skull:
I guess that this is victory-
the delight is pouring on me like rain:
I am on the faceless streets of Chicago
and from the radio is playing some good piano,
I watch outside through the window

the sun looks like a cat
sleeping in the corner of nowhere

I pay the driver, get out, walk in the light,
from the shelves in front of the bookstores
some faces are looking at me
faces of writers screaming for recognition,
words dry like autumns leaves,
my head aches
my eyes are weary,
I stretch out my empty hand
(the other one is holding the glass or
the conductor’s stick)
I am thinking about Hemingway
and continue to walk-
sometimes they tell me (but not too often),
that I am a fair poet,
but I am just dreaming for little quietness,
for one small escape from everything,
for one calm storm outside,
for the collected works of de Sade

some day
everything will have some meaning
but until then…

Angels,
give me something black and shiny
to put in my mouth.