I live a life of appetite and, yes, that’s right,
I live a life of privilege in New York,
Eating buttered toast in bed with cunty fingers on Sunday morning.
Say that again?
I have a rule—
I never give to beggars in the street who hold their hands out.

I woke up this morning in my air-conditioning.
At the end of my legs were my feet.
Foot and foot stretched out outside the duvet looking for me!
Get up. Giddyup. Get going.
My feet were there on the far side of my legs.
Get up. Giddyup. Get going.

I don’t really think I am going to.
Obama is doing just fine.
I don’t think I’m going to.
Get up. Giddyup. Get going.
I can see out the window it isn’t raining.
So much for the endless forecasts, always wrong.

The poor are poorer than they ever were.
The rich are richer than the poor.
Is it true about the poor?
It’s always possible to be amusing.
I saw a rat down in the subway.
So what if you saw a rat.

I admire the poor profusely.
I want their autograph.
They make me shy.
I keep my distance.
I’m getting to the bottom of the island.
Lower Broadway comes to a boil and City Hall is boiling.

I’m half asleep but I’m awake.
At the other end of me are my feet
In shoes of considerable sophistication
Walking down Broadway in the heat.
I’m half asleep in the heat.
I’m, so to speak, wearing a hat.

I’m no Saint Francis.
I’m in one of my trances.
When I look in a mirror,
There’s an old man in a trance.
There’s a Gobi Desert,
And that’s poetry, or rather rhetoric.

You see what happens if you don’t make sense?
It only makes sense to not.
You feel the flicker of a hummingbird
It takes a second to find.
You hear a whir.
It’s here. It’s there. It hovers, begging, hand out.

One lives a life of appetite and, yes,
Lives a life of privilege in New York.
So many wretched refuse with their hands out.
Help me please get something to eat.
I’m a pope in a pulpit of air-conditioned humility
And widening income inequality, eating mostly pussy.

A lady-in-waiting at the imperial court
Flutters her fan in the Heian (Kyoto) heat.
How delicately she does it.
You can’t see
How you want to live?
She perspires only a bit.

Outside the Department of Motor Vehicles palace, Francis of Assisi
Is eating garbage with the homeless
And writing a poem to God,
And to our lord Brother Sun.
Never mind that the sun is dangerously hot
Out on the sidewalk.

Open your arms like a fresh pack of cards
And shuffle the deck.
Now open your heart.
Now open your art.
Now get down on your knees in the street
And eat.