The Intentions of the Intentional

When in every weep, the weary
reap. And Rome to Paris parish
quick to follow feet of fast and fettered fools.

Itwastheheat,thehotspot;
the center of the world, man.
Fat Domi Dot. Dot. Dot.
That’s
jazz
Jazz
jazz,
Dig?

By and By as each worked/dead numbers, sets,
and sullies those dammed starvation ghouls he/she breaks
until there is only ever air in the wind.

I was crying last night, baby;
sleeping with your shadow,
in the quiet desperation
of yester-mornings’ tears:
the
sad
sad
song
of every cloud rolling past the sky.

Mark! the sound of sweetness
strike on the sun swept brack: the dry execution
of one tender palm to the next.

Years ago? I was there.
I was
young/
pretty/
the careful diagnosis of strangers.