THE MANY OF YOU THEN AND NOW
you had to be there. and if you are there tell yourself how it was. and if you were there tell yourself how you are. like the smell of cedars. that don't make me southern. but this all prob'ly does. then you go ahead and tell us why they called him Calvin the Abolitionist. or, why when you were there, he was here today calling himself an "oblitionist." folks is like that. one day you're up in the cedar trees or spreading cedar chips for a company called "We Spread Cedar." next minute you're a goddam oblitionist oblitioning all over Nebraska. remind you to tell yourself who that was up there. meanwhile you don't even have an oblitionist's license (Where you think this is, New Jersey or someplace?). you had to be there by 5 and, needless to say, it's always at least 6 now. the darkness makes the glass door a crummy mirror. like the kind you don't get in a bathroom with lights. in a bathroom with lights you're trying to scrub cedar off your hands. in front of a a crummy mirror you cannot squeeze an oblitionist's license out of a liquid soap dispenser. maybe forget the whole thing. buy yourself a nice dress and join the service. you know, back when you used to play "the cosmonaut and the carpetbagger." as you are, gentleman. inside some guy is saying in sign language, "We're closed!" or, "Oblitionists need not apply."
|The East Village Poetry Web