Dressed in an old coat I lumber Down a street in the East Village, time itself Whistling up my ass and looking to punish me For all the undone business I have walked away from, And I think I might have stayed In that last tower by the ocean, The one I built with my hands and furnished Using funds which came to me at nightfall, in a windfall.... Just ahead of me, under the telephone wires On this long lane of troubles, I notice a gathering Of viciously insane criminals I'll have to pass Getting to the end of this long block in eternity. There's nothing between us. Good I look so dangerous in this coat.
Liam Rector - 1949-2007
Hans Reading, Hans Smoking
My mother, poised around behavior, would say You are sitting there reading and smoking, Hans, And this would describe for her, to her utter Satisfaction, what it is you are doing. Knowing you I guess you are stationed there In grief, reverie, worry--your car broken Down, the mechanic wanting money, and you without, For the moment, what it takes--and you thinking Of love lost as you read that impossible book Your father last gave you....I see you smoking And as an addict myself I know this is something You are barely doing....The habit smokes itself And you, you are turning the page where the woman From New Orleans, like your woman, goes to Manhattan. I suppose my mother, in her mania, could never afford To think there was anything hovering around, anything Behind behavior. Unable to sit, to go into that sorrow Where what failed to happen presses against what did, She would get up, go out looking for "Something Different," do anything to keep moving, behaving... Going. But you, Hans, you are a sitter, and I know You will not be getting up until you have put this time Behind you. And so your friends pass by waiting, Wanting to know what you will come up with when you rise From your stationary chair, our Hans reading and smoking.