Black Tuesday

I locked myself in
the bathroom because it was 1929 again

(and dropping
hugo or rimbaud spread eagled on the
new floor-)

a chair
squeaks and groans
and I am pressed against the door
heavily the
gasoline entrails upon the back
of my hair, heavy and violet-

a
monstrous debauched
Thing-
grappling out the corner of my eye. and in October
poised
upon the window ledge
of indifferent mausoleum cement, where opulently overweight
pigeons
cooed dumbly and sagged
thru' the rushing trouser legs,
pinstriped. reeking of bad gin and old wooden floors-

they
are singing on
the newscast-
oh singing
most
wondrously staring at snow
and here-

among the
quiet womb of porcelain, of faucets and the mirror above
the clinical white-

a face
appears laughing
and bitter about the mouth. "ain't we got fun?" the

rain
collapses out-of-doors smacking right
into the eye of unhealthy prosperity and happily the
wind

roars about
a calendar page on the polished floor beside a dog-
eared snag of rimbaud's "illuminations"