Inch of Drowning Water

You’re a kid in Hoboken, splish splashed soaking up the American dream. You’re a flash in the pan, going rash in life span, happy to hear Idi Amin though not a fan, cub kind reporter working journalist New York Times, with kin, down by the apple, in Big Apple, clean.

A solemn sweet, wine soaked, and dark star, dark child. Bedford-Stuyvesant, seasons and stars changing, your heart’s enterprises clanging. You go with a brush, a wet rag, a bucket, for you’ve contracted thrush. You hear of a crash, hope to soak in the (tsu)sunami, salami, the wild ride over the rainbow, calypso, a cruise, through a night,

It is hotter than hell in Mannahatta, though a northern “state” — where it snows and black folk goes free lance, never in its career, scratching its rear, a kid in Hoboken, selling its soul, to strum a banjo, to scratch behind ear, scratch guitar, death star.

as a hobo in Hoboken, or a grizzly dip shit kick shit, of a hobo in Hoboken.

Or, Mannahatta, Casablanca, Minnihaha, Potemkin, lickety split, lick spittle, off the griddle, nomenclature, Walla Walla, Spokane– tributary of Columbia, not District of Columbia, but the river, rivering, as water-bays, shimmering,

And then, in treble clef, the Shishmaref, the big bruising dam, the electric down the shores of nesting,

The Grand Coulee dam.

The aborigines who “named” Mannahatta Mannahatta, didn’t want America to fail. They had the insight, Ishmael, America not fail.

The aboriginals were not named to the United Nations– because they were not a nation. They weren’t a people. They had no God, their pride was they were not feeble, feeble people. They were chosen, to be

Nameless.