January 1976

while I sit here in this
graveyard of walls
all the psychiatrists have done
is read books
while the people laugh
at the bad life
bad acts
bad jokes

there’s no help from the great
there’s this circus

there’s no help from the great
there’s no great
to overcome repetition:
buttons on the mattress
too
many afternoons and sidewalks
telephones
jobs
refrigerators
stoves
automobiles
girlfriends

in tiny rooms again
among the stereos of fools fluttering
there are memories of famous boxing matches
as they punch love in the mouth once again

against backgrounds of grey and black buildings
I put my stockings on
again.

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