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Poem

Will the angels sing
  When the old matador
 stares down his final bull?
Knowing that his dance 
Of death’s fine procession
Grows ever more still?
And sooner or later the sword
Will miss its mark?
And will those angels know their song is for no one at all?
Or will they put down a 50 spot on the bull?  

2

Those angels know there is no score keeper
What is this any way, 
A goddam baseball game
 After all only silence echoes through the empty stadium
Where there was never a ticket punched 
And the Dodgers never received 
The Brooklyn cheer.
And the angels?
They are cheap subway preachers
Who have learned to live on their knee. 

3

I know you pine
for
an anxious city that haunts every song
you stole,
 without its ghosts.
They (the ghosts) are why radio exists.
Of course New York no longer thinks like Paris
and only the roaches
now cheer for all the empty units.
What is left for these ghosts to do
but to place their bets at the OTB
on races that have already run,
and waving tickets already punched and expired?
 You will never learn how to shift the way you walk
in a city that no longer has its own gravity.
I've learned to let my body dissolve into the darkness
of the movie theater
as a means of leaving this place
to escape when everyone around gets
too close
like blind cave fish unware of distance. 
Its a trick taught by Hindus when the blood runs dry
according to the tv.

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