I am man, I clean the bathroom of god
I bathe in surly wonderlust
In hallowed dungeons, swept by gnomelike underlings
I am man, I leave the driving to Us.
Through piquant groves of olive trees
I traipse and mince like anchovies
Upon the vernal equinox of frozen pizza labyrinths
I am man, I listen to E.F. Hutton
He brings me tea, and mulberry muffins
In valley deep or mountain high
I scrawl my name on the dingy rusted subway car
of eternity.
Does this train stop at Times Square?
