DESPERATION

When a poet
needs the right word
in its own tense time
send out language
to express
every punctured line,
believe me
he's punch
drunk from the sun
perched like a songbird
by the clothes line
his cool searching movements
in April fool's light fragments
from every secret terrain,

direct the thought pattern
of this poet's brain
bring him back
to Manhattan
in the Sixties
on the underground train,
have him play sax again
take down his collar
set him up in the subway
beside a cup for dollars
get him a microphone
for his last subterranean quatrain
amid a world of brass rings
and pain,
his fingers rattle off notes
from a vagrant hand
needing the patience
of any prophet in the land,
give him drama and commas
as mirrors time
out of doors
to spring in the dust and sand
as a new green greets him
in this Beat's chanting creation
with aspiring echo's breath
defying death
sustain, sustain.