MORNING MANHATTAN,1992

A quarter to seven
grafitti rats on you
empty ninth circles
of corpses,
a dirty swatstika
on a beaten leather coat
from a skin head
fell off a Salvation Army truck
night sweats
from a dark German beer,
The Tears of Petra Von Kant's
dialogue won't leave me alone
to sleep it off,
nightmare of an electric chair
installed by Caryl Chessman,
where is Ricky Nelson
when I need him
to rescue him
from his airplane crash
needing his wry smile
in this polyglot time
of my winter solstice
speak memory,Nabokov
to me in Russian
my vision is dilated
the City needs
to be criminally updated
on the A.M. charts
to rock myself
out of the cold bed
here at the Chelsea,
wash my future
swear by my past
launder the present
under the sun
and weight lift my day.