avant-garde

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I am a revolutionary alive and now in the city of borrowers,
absolute master of library arts; a giant warring sloth with armor
plating turning pages, changeling bounder with moves as sudden
as reality showing up in stranger places. I, too, see the evidence.
Soldiers in little hamlets - blonds with new smiles seem likely
to know where I’ve been by the uniform they wear.
In a healthy not-New-York Tootsie Roll face I also read
camouflage affect hiding the friendly fire, sometimes
forcing Sisyphus’ surrender with red Camus flag; they
kiss themselves through me.

I am the Brindle cat of 9th Street, guerrilla Wallace in Wonderland war
room; Joan of Arch counters my Xeroxed strategies from her wire-
windowed room chased around corners by giant metal whistles on wheels –
too many histrionic police inside flopping, babbling, bobbling!
Restrained by their plastic, Glock, semi-auto microphones pressing at my medals,
I try some sort of response
But all that comes out is:

“Θάλαττα, θάλαττα, θάλαττα…“.

Overdue to your categorizing streets, engaged in mornings
filled with CPAs hovering over your Dewey decimals, taxonomy’s
tenderness sheltered by: can’t see the forest for the no-trees falling.
“Ba-bye…” “are you sure you want to do this?” “red motorcycles and
green sailboats…”

A fifth column of people and cars continue going up and down with all
the gunpowder of a dog-eared old history text with evil Indians’ pictures
written in a language you did not specify in your exegesis but giving me
unequivocally the monumental intonation of forever
rounded Washington Square:
American Revolution

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A.G.’s Home Site: www.gobi-igloo.com

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