My house (it's a really two-bedroom apartment
On the corner of Moorpark, lineup as if it
Was a firecracker or criminal lot, unshaven, old;
Overcrowding and unquiet nearby an overcrowded
Avenue filled with prostitutes, hustlers, pimps, etc.)
In front of my house there were several roses and wild Carmelites,
And sometimes they called it the flowery hamburger-tree building.
I knew it was rooted by a woman named Martha --
--A white, fat housewife who lived at Apartment 334
Who taught me how to make roses with recycle of Newspapers
And they're very pretty in Thanksgiving parade.
But Martha knew how they could be so pretty,
And she is dead now, (killed by an overnight bullet
By an unknown gunman who had stolen three dollars
On her night able...The bullet crossed her face,
And we all missed her.
Across the corridor, unspoken long pathways
Of fairest oldies and bloody virgins
And hanging up against the walls secret codes and God knows what the hell these say. It began to expand with regressive fall, repeating over and over
They were completely no alone.
Back there, soured smell, noises,
Stolen tires and a shitted pool, and that all ought to be
Passing in same way where the trees were lower,
And the brushes waving high and all happen just like that.
Now, here, inside this Beverly Hill apartment house
In Moorpark, an empty kitchen and some funny pictures: apples & oranges
& a Girl watches a landscape; all were unchangeable against the wall.
Holding the anger still
Seriously as a half-onion, I kept playing any
That initial bid knowing as Death and Hope which I know it is part of our dream.
My dream, and that one day I'll zoom myself out.
From "The Nursery Dawn"