THE SINGER OF MANHATTAN
(In Memory of Delmore Schwartz)
birth Dec. 8, 1903

A jazz trumpet is heard
to sing over the buildings
on the roof of birds
a poet of boundless words
has lost it
amid his Manhattan chambers
but it is your special day
some will remember
December the eighth
but at this time, Delmore
you do not trust anyone
or cannot even make a rhyme
as you raise your blinds
to this day's sun,
punch drunk
on your own mortality
crazed by black birds
on the fire escape
feeling lost and cheated
out of life and shape,
the city smokes its own
as you empty your ashtrays
on a threshold of breakdowns
near your dry bones
when no suicide note amends
or any way to atone,
noting the skyline has dozens
of oven birds rising up
as you pour more liquor in a cup
near Jacob's ladders
staring at the logged fireplace
with radio news and music on
as night slowly falls
over the drifting snow,
yet not moving out
for there is no where to go,
your youthful dreams now aged
growing into a pathetic madness
even when a friend and critic
from the Times dares to visit
you walk barefoot to the door
but do not open it,
lying here with living words
a well known poet paces the room
feeling alone
with his melancholic gloom,
with volumes of words
written at your desk
only your is pride intact
a soul now delirious
wishing to be that kith and kid
in the school hallways
wanting always be no.1 in class
or the serious teacher's pet,
it's another December 8th
and Delmore you have hid here
for years without remorse
with labyrinths of no recourse
except to drink heavily
or take pills
using crayons for graffiti verse
or making up cartoons
for an afternoon
over troubled walls
feeling doubled minded
and blinded to any feeling
to any vision from Dante
that needs love to be revealing
in your requited sadness
as any insomniac in your flat
nothing wakens your memory
from any passion fruited sun
you tremble in dark shadows
from your hurting back
yet suddenly you remember
the statue of Rodin
"The Thinker"
in a book of drawings,
yet you sleep only with
your Luciferian pride
in knots from self pity
tasting the bitterness
of raw herbs
deciding to pass over
any promised land or city
or to desire like Dante
that you share a kiss
from Beatrice
or take a bride
in the morning cool air
not wanting another birthday
to share with a friend
over these dirty sheets
on your unmade cot
demanding the world
give you recognition
that deserves a five star pin,
with an open mouth
of cigarettes and Cuban cigars
convinced in your clever solitude
without a contact or contract
to live as a moody recluse
not washing your face
with an unnerved heart
forgetting your fan letters
leaving not even one
when you depart
as you tie on the laces
on your cheap shoes
no one embraces you
it's as if you are on fire
only by your own anger
even at this unholy hour
the singer of Manhattan
is never reborn.