Philadelphia (cont'd)

The physical artifact, distinguishing an author
from a wanna-be writer is the book.
One does not care--at least, I don't--
who published it, who distributes it,
who its wholesaler was, and what discount
was demanded, what favors were traded,
what debts called in, what markers given,
just so the word got right on the page
and the pages got out to a readership.
A coterie, a clique, the town creep
in the adjoining town, on errands of life
we all end up in the same Dead Letter Office
as Bartleby the Scrivener.

I'm going to read a press release I wrote
called "Bartleby the Aviator," which makes fun of
our commander-in-chief, old Mission Accomplished.
The motivational speaker at a convention of Realtors.
Whose permanent military record was sanitized, redacted,
by gremlins, haints, a poltergeist perhaps, persons of interest,
you can't even call them unindicted co-conspirators because
the beneficiary of the mischief was clueless. Clueless George.
What, me worry? Someone will rid me of this meddlesome priest
because I'm charmed, I'm charming, let me show you my
Crawfordville, Texas. Picture of the president clearing brush.
Not a cough in a carload. Causes cancer.

I'm going to read a press release I wrote about
the president passing out and abrading his cheek
while fucking a pretzel in an autoerotic asphyxiation
(AEA) incident. Monica Lewinsky, eat your heart out.
So to speak. I don't need no unindicted co-conspirator
I was an independent jack-off artist. I cause cancer.
Not a cough in a carload. I am as innocent as the day is long.
I'm clueless. A position based on religious belief, not scientific
evidence, is invulnerable, and cannot be refuted. Do you have proof?
No harm, no foul. Besides, the evidence just seems to disappear,
or is not collected in the first place. The silent killer. The courtroom
creeper. The fart in church. The prurient ape.
The smirk. The smirk.

I'm going to read a press release I wrote about the Roadmap for Peace (RFP)
in the Middle East. About Apartheid? White Slavery? Female Circumcision
in Sub-Saharan Africa? Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMD)?
War Profiteering? Surely you jest, señor. Haven't you heard of La Mordida?
That's not my department. Didn't happen on my watch.
The mission was accomplished, wasn't it?
I'm dumb like a fox.

I'm going to read a press release I wrote
about the president having pre-senile dementia (PSD).
Which explains his lapses of memory, aphasia,
and confused chimp expression. Imagine being shown-up
in a debate with Wooden Indian John Kerry, who made
Ed Muskie on Igobaine look like a barrel of monkeys
on Spanish fly, to mix a metaphor. Imagine them jacking off
on Monkey Island, like a bunch of inner-city Democrats,
laughing at us. But who will have the last laugh? Eh?
Who's laughing now, Monkey Boy?
Whistle Ass.

I'm sitting on the balcony of the 4th floor
of an Embassy Suites hotel. I see now that
the building with the green dome is a church.
Above the dome is a golden cross. On the street below,
women jog, men in backpacks hike, urban campers sleep
on park benches, or the sidewalk, and black people shout at
each other like tribal kinsmen. We sell missiles to Bantu darkies.
Pigeons beg for handouts. Cars and buses drive past, and honk their horns.
Ambulances and fire engines and police cars blow their sirens. Bernie Kerik
for Homeland Security. No, wait. Disregard. The previous statement
in inoperative. Ron Ziegler, where are you now that we need you?
I'm not going to comment on an ongoing investigation.
I'm not going to comment.
Ongoing. Ongoing.
Man, this is really living, ain't it?
Scott McClellan can be very useful to us.

The church has a carillon
that rings out at five til nine.
I've been up since six,
which is five, Panama City time.
Or it is seven? "The Carillon"
is on the cover of my book.
A painting of a clockwork mechanism.
Ballet Mechanique. A cubist painting
called Le Journal. I write a poem in
my red linen notebook. Lined paper.
Acid-free. Apropos of journals.
Jaywalkers cross the street. Scofflaws.
What you lookin' at? I'm up here and you're
down there, seems like to me. Third World.
Let them eat cake. You're as free to sleep
under bridges as the rich are.

We're supposed to pass out fliers
in front of the public library this afternoon.
Rittenhouse Square. Handbills, manifestos.
Announcing the readings at the Medusa Lounge,
nice hair, ma'am, like a tinpot anarchist, where is
Martha Mitchell now that we need her?
Did John Ashcroft even have a wife?
A policman on a bicycle. Where's your horse?
Your baton? Your face mask and Mace bomb.
Your tear gas and pepper spray, your Taser.
Thud amplification by the simulated emission
of radiation. Nothing beats the old Blitz Cloth.
For shining brass. Fists at seven, Madras belts at six.
Frank Rizzo's union thugs versus wimpy reporters.
William Carlos Williams said the underground is the mainstream
and the mainstream is a temporary spectacle, an entertainment,
flash, glitz, kept afloat by money, filthy lucre, it's Michael Jackson
versus Afro-Cuban jazz. Did he dye his dick white? My first published book
asked what colored town would be like in Utopia. Friends of Hookworm, unite!
The cover of your book is "Calliope," not "The Carillon." Oh, yea. Loan me
your eraser, will you? Four-letter word, ending in i. t., found in the bottom of
a birdcage. Grit.