LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village

Anselm Berrigan

Take this poem and banish it from my sight

Those hurt faces want to be spiked unconditionally.
They have been duped by sightseers. Well-dressed
people do not walk the streets & are not susceptible
to the charms of our metropolis. The people grow taller
every year, without the old vices that once rendered
them decent. I am attaching a bird's head with two
slow turns of the neck, spork swallowing spork
as the ground fog passes.