"Why are your libraries full of tears?"

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JL|BM|ED
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wall street is a sign.
it is a form of address.
panic. i feel it.
in the city, how do i know this.
three swimmers, numbers 9, 8 and 7.
A pink stucco ranch house from the 50s in the sun
perched precariously on a perfectly flat field at an angle.

In the mist of time I see the galvanized windmill still working,
a carnival arrow pointing left with several bulbs missing
and in front, a card table with
the four suits.

Later, a station wagon, its engine enshrouded in black was going to the airport.
Mom opened the refrigerator but it was hard to see what was in there.
A Pan-Am flight landed.
On display was a mannequin dressed
the same as Mom.

polyglot company disinters her
ossuaries engulf recidividists everywhere
now we are in the same part of the body & one has an image of the whole scenery, change the sky
it’s not a sexual activity . it’s not attractive & not its opposite. It’s chaotic though panic still is on the sky
it’s always in laos, i am a person who wants pleasure & one has an image of boredom & not a sexual activity . . . .
Yes . . . change the completely self-composed man or woman. I hid my eyes.
Not “Revelation”—’tis—that waits,
But our

America after all different sexes
America when will we end and never get from Russia.
I'm doing.
America I have seen me that I still haven't read it in the light of two dollars and sentimental about the
workers it every time I have seen me cry I won't say the Spanish Loyalists
America I'm nothing.
America when I who are falling.
I get laid.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I don't bother me.
I smoke marijuana every time I write a communist when will you look at yourself with your eggs to go into the point.
I don't