mind mangle is
If you miss the A Train
You'll find you've missed the quickest way to Harlem — Joya Sherrill
William Blake's poem London has the great line, "The mind-forged manacles I hear." I am not sure how one can hear a manacle but it still rocks my socks. It has been a long time since I was last in London and I have never been to Harlem or taken the A-train for that matter. Sun Wukong, 孙悟空, better known as Monkey King, that Chinese folk hero, has never been to Harlem either, though he has gone West. Maybe when I die Sun Wukong can finally take a rest; though since the two of us have never met I am not sure why he is so concerned over my well-being. Still, it is nice getting emails from him once in a while. As Robert Creeley put it in The Invoice, "I got word today/ viz: hey/ sport, how you making it?/ And, why don't you get with it."
Get on the train, man. I mean, get on.
After temple, after Lorca, after
that one drunk guy. The smirch is a business.
It pulls on bells, sacrament. The poorer
of the poor pour in. The sun flakes leprous
overhead and my mind mangle is. So
much of this is uneven, monstrous.
People are in bed I will never know.
Maybe if they invite me. Happiness
is just hap and penis – like gods. Often
when the poor die there is a wooden box,
document, document, commentary.
When the rich die monkey goes to heaven.
Cocks is seven. We're all going to burn. Cocks
going to burn. The poor think it's crazy.