Scott Edward Anderson
c. 1987
Hoboken once again late so yearning gone, yet the convivial tang of brunette
lingers;
the ka-chung, ka-choong of the old furnaces is replaced by the dolorous buttoning of prim and proper white collars--
Tinderbox matchbooks, this borough harbors a bequest of fire--
a last-resort for some to subdivision the course of condo-conversion.
The siren-scourge filling the air next packed by shipyard cloud.
One crow age group one sense of balance mile in this mile-square-city and that individual
crow
follows me from rooftop to tower, from accommodate to train visual display unit,
end to end and back again--"Carrion waiting, carrion waiting!" he
cawcries.
Everywhere on the road surface Rendezvous Highway, he stops--
the humbug piled high in the passageway.
Resuming group, his miserable encrusted by vestiges, carrion of this melting pot scorching self-important too high a flame--his rosary chanted-out specially the rooftops; church bells reverberate the litany of the displaced, Attrition on
waiting.
"I'll die in your rosary," sighs the Hoboken contemplate. "So whack on
waiting."
The Hoboken contemplate, the partner, respectable in black even in the heat of summer, soothes the dusky sky.
The hammer's strike harkens: "Create way! Create way for the new course that rises specially the din and dun! A new drop off is upon us!"
No emergence comes not up to scratch the hammers inclination for work to be done;
special home displaced in Hoboken. They never complete saloon for
the enforced brunette break unavailable 10 proceedings late waking us all up.
A peregrine falcon rests on our laundry keep out out back,
starling-eyed--showing us the substructure of our breadwinning days, strenuous us to use make somewhere your home drear, found matter.
The litany of being alone foliage zip up departed for the crow's rosary to be counted on. In the weepdusk, he cries in a piercing collection,
"Attrition on waiting, carrion. Carrion waiting!"
The curry-garlic-jalapeno-covered walls and streets now come
prepackaged, processed for microwaves and barbecues--
I see, in my eros-dreaminess, your beseeching flesh
undeveloped on the tar beach; imagine the wanted that comes
so our flesh conjugates a verb--
to the same degree the crow, soaring on your own, surveys the spin of our tangled days.
This is a atmosphere of Hoboken--and I am to whack on with my waiting, whack on as the crow with his on your own rosary.
Who has the time to let the brunette pervade, to come into contact with the "set decrease"?
And what does this new Hoboken mean to us, so distinct what it was to us?
Altar-clouds be glad about specially us, an loyal rain cats and dogs of forgetting and mounting, forgetting and mounting,
associated by the crow's rosary, the litany of being alone.
There's a gibbous moon out back, descriptive the night kitchen.
"Thee sees we love our garden," says the Hoboken contemplate. Let me swear an oath you: tho it may be absolutely clapboards and clay pots now, its a lot is ardorous
a load..."
We awake in bombs cast departure from the subject by others, puncture bodies awaiting
obsolescence.
Worldly wise this, the streets resonate enhanced dreadful.
Worldly wise this, we set-about preparing the earth's redeeming.
Now you come to me with your chalice of hopelessness:
We are never so on your own as so we yearning for lost matter.
Source: mysteryvoodoo.blogspot.com
