A Face Without an I



Nobody put on his eyes;
if you want to pass
it's all in the eyes: the Romantic
eye twirling on a parasol,
kohly eye of Horus weeping
blackest code, Der Sandman made
off with his two good
weepers, oglers, peeled grapes
for the bad dreams
of toddlers, rolling down his face
& into the gutter
with the crooks & leeches.
The suggestion is as good as
anatomy, behind the shades
his eyes were closed, being dead
& this dead being under bandages
only wants to disappear.

Nobody wrapped up in this
city where he earned his third degree
burns--left the oven on
& leveled the town, down to the river
where he ran to be alone
but found another mouth to feed,
hers--thought he was a Prince
of Egypt all in those wraps--call
it fate, call it names, throw another
kitten on the grill to feed the rats
& call me anytime, any place,

anywhere where there's satin
sheets & smoking jackets, stuffed
shirts in mahogany board rooms
who can provide for the wives
of Mammon, keep them in
the lifestyles to which they have
become accustomed:

endless weekends on the boss's
boss's yacht, his propped-up corpse
being made to wave toward
the admirers stuck
on shore, dark sunglasses
even at night: don't switch
the blade on the guy in
shades as mission statement,
a corporate retreat from
all that is not masquerade or
bandaged over by a lover's
lover's alibi.


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