I hadn't readily realized
contemporaneity
under dominance of the rising,
myself sinking
(below recognition)
as Robert Simpson's Symphony No. 3
bangs away with the concrete and steel
of The German Reich's bunkers

My claims on the present
are met with smiles
that don't reach the eyes

Just out
of the vibrance
of the right of residence
of manhood
and well past pride of profession,
I'm outside
of the Twelve Gates of the City,
with no horns
to bring the walls down,
the Wilderness of Wild Thoughts
down the path of my bare feet,
down into the No Man's Land
of amnesia and oblivion,
the Lowlands of the Absent,
way beyond the Charms of Gray Temples,
chilly freedom flowing
round my shoulders
in an alien Gustave Doré-scape,
carrying my language
in a plastic bag,
my future in the wink of an eye
below the silent moon,
peeing in envelopes,
shitting in the wind
for as long as the citizens of the land
tolerate me,
by grace of patience of tradition,
while impatiently readying themselves
to make good use
of my space,
receding into the faintness
of shadows
in the corner of eyes,
in back of minds,
out of order
on the far side of everything,
where, past any decent age,
there is a last breath sounding
a ram's horn
when time's flood keeps rising
and the levee won't hold