Papasquiaro’s “Advice from 1 Disciple of Marx to 1 Heidegger fanatic”

the life of the ex-May Queen in the days of Hiroshima

                & the now neurotic grandmother of mongoloid triplets

that of the teenager penniless & up for anything

                & with hips that would have strangled the pulse

                        of Oscar Wilde

that of the fop who says the park

                is like the flowering liver of the city

while prancing on the tips of his toes

                around some woman who hasn’t even told him her name

that of so many who have bathed 5 / 6 times

                in the black waters of failure

& not by choice (so they say)

not like those who gobble up––between smiles––1 meringue tart

                            in no way like that

& that’s what you always say (You / Me / Us)

while slowly buttoning up your raincoat

                ––your body & your psychological defenses––

& going out for 1 walk––that will be more than 1––

                            in the rain

                                inside & out

                            in the rain

& all because you need to you’re desperate to let go & cry openly

with nobody & nothing to interrupt you

not even those chicks in hot pants

                glimmering with their bronze thighs

& clinging to the golden lampposts

& you’re not the only 1 who claims to be the only passenger

                on his schizophrenic submarine

while walking (like some lunatic) with 1 burnt-out cigarette in your mouth

& the rain drenching you grotesquely

                from the top of your head to the point of your chin

Of course you’re not the only 1

before whom the rusty umbrella of life

                doesn’t want to spread its wings

you’re not the only 1 to whom the world seems

––in moments of pessimism––

1 ghetto without bridges or streets

& also sometimes you totter & cloud over

you scratch your nose & the scab of remembrance

                Existence takes the form of 1 cop

who runs his state-of-the-art billy club down the length of your face

& you still ask: What’s up my big bad wolf?

                How’s the repression doing?

while the marijuana bushes

planted like carrots in the subsoil of your mind tremble

& your heart is 1 crowded neighborhood

                with the gutters & the roof falling down

                from sheer terror

                                from sheer terror

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