With one hand on
the railing and the other
cocked at the brim of his hat
he may look quaint in a
self conscious New York boho way
when you examine the snapshot,
but check the passport for a better view:
the face leveled right at you,
not a point of light in those eyes.
Run as fast
as you can, darling,
the ripper’s here:
creative type extraordinaire,
good with words, easy with
Chomsky or Dylan, knows Coltrane
from Konitz, eats with one taste bud
out-
stretched.
Also, owns a bunch of knives and
can’t make up his mind when he
sharpens them: keep them sharp
for guaranteed results or dull ’em a touch
for a gain in pain?
One step down his hall there’s
a print of something vaguely
Pollockian, two steps down is
a bug-eyed rat in a dressed up street rod,
three steps down’s a long way into
his house. (Don’t bother turning around,
the light’s out behind you.)
You’d like to think he’s redeemable. So would he.
He tries to seem that way,
anyway. Picks up another pencil, starts a sad letter
to all the people he’s ever known. Erases it.
Puts it down, picks up one of his sharper knives,
starts cutting random letters from the daily paper.
You’ll be getting mail soon.
If it scares you enough,
he can always call it art.
Dark Matter 