Day 4

Let it never said, that I did not give my readers exactly what they want.

Naked women, naked men, ice-cream, the Beatles, tortilla chips, and bewildered bumble bees. Get 'em here! Get 'em now! Get 'em hot off the presses, before the sad reality starts seeping through their vapourous floral dresses!


Part I

Paint me a pair of bold anfractous rocks
Set somewhere in Cyclades—any spot—
Totally removed from Time. No clocks.
I’ll take an afternoon in August, hot
Enough to melt a laboratory flask;
I would emerge from a cool underpass
To catch a guitar weeping, an old song,
In between kids shrieking on the Great Lawn;
So many people with someplace to be
Hurrying to different destinations!
‘Who comes to New York City for vacations?’
One asks a poor, pitiable bee
Circling a can of garbage going sour.
Surely, God would not begrudge an hour

Of timelessness unto Humanity—
His representatives on Earth. He must
Have made us and forgotten us. Maybe.
How else would you explain the missing bus,
The leaky awning, and the pouring rain,
And wishing I were elsewhere? Hence, the plane
Landing on a rocky isle in Greece—
Ahead of schedule, in the Cyclades,
Bathed in Hellenic blue. And far below—
Scarcely visible on the white beach—
There is a tiny pink umbrella which
Belongs in a pineapple drink, although
It could be a reflection. That’s too bad.
It added something poignant to the ad

Flirting with me from across the street.
A fault in one of its florescent lights—
Flutter. Flicker. Blackout. And repeat:
Ad infinitum. How I hate these nights!
These buses! Cold rainwater in my shoe!
To say I hate New York would not be true.
We have an odd relationship, I’d say,
We need each other, sort of, in the way
A sad, sadistic cop requires a good,
But slightly stupid buddy on the force
To buy Budwiesers for him, post-divorce,
And hear how he has wrecked his life. This would
Make a fine, redemptive movie script,
Down to the last, cheesy tortilla chip.