Classic Poem

so
I have time to wonder
how come she still
isn't liked by people
and
wonder too
what she was
eating
and by the way
wonder
why
grammar is passionate
and why
a person does good
to persons
and why
Americans
grill their meat
without sprinkling pepper or salt.

Ever since summer
we've had a slight fever in our muscles
we took off our underwear at a doctor's
and always came home with only outerwear on;
that was because of laziness
and had no relation with spirit or history.
And we were suddenly
buying photographs of nudes in Times Square;
this too
like death, was unrelated to us.
And we were suddenly
talking with a Jew
in a shack on the East Side,
in a toy shop.
And we were suddenly
riding the daytime subway with no one else on it
and, never killed,
were suddenly alive;
this too
is unrelated to anyone's joy.
We are
unrelated to what,
we have
no relation with what,
if that's the question
I was having relations
with you buddy,
that is
the cigarettes and change in your
pockets
are every day
scattered in the street called the Bowery
to have incessant relations with fear,
that's what you believed.

Today too
persons were visiting persons;
there were no incidents
except
both in winter and in spring
wind was blowing.

Outside the landscape
their long overcoats were lined up
they were eating still lifes
and shitting purple shit
they were torn scalps
they were relative pronouns
they were inclining surfaces
they were still alive.
English
doesn't shout
like a human being;
we can only
timidly enter a coffee shop
from outside
and throw away the absurdly large lemon rinds
afloat in the cups.
Nothing happens.
What is performed
is the progress
which is continued
like the long long earrings
that hang eternally
from old women's circumcised lobes.
That is,
those auburn women,
drinking auburn coffee
and turning auburn,
those pink women,
drinking pink coffee
and turning pink,
have long been staying
in this world, or so they say.
Since yesterday
I've been out of stock
of things I can talk about;
I haven't had with me
things to illustrate things with;
if you alone die
that won't make an illustrative story.
All I know
is that no one shouts.
For the last several hundred years
no one has heard a human voice.

Today too
various persons
were visiting various persons.
People
clogged their throats
sometimes with food
sometimes with drinks.
The born child was asleep.
Toward a river
we were walking.
Someone lives there,
that we were sure of.
Our secrets
were what they were tasting.
Their secrets
were the same as ours.
But
the long bridge spanning the river
had already fallen down
just as at a convenient moment
a woman you love dies.

Today too
the sky was bright;
when it rains here
it rains all over this country,
that's a trick,
it seems to me.
We have yet to come across
a funeral procession on this island.
In short
neither of us
was the type to see to the last
the end of man's world.
Except I am
concerned
about your noisy
festival-like kindness
hanging from your ribs.
You
don't you have anything to say?
In the lover's
mouth
a wisdom tooth grew;
then
you
always opened the refrigerator;
then
you
like a picture in a picture
became accurate
and in an extremely tiny
dim place
sat cross-legged
and tore sheets off the calendar;
you and your short temper.

Today too
persons visit persons
you are
ice
cream
and molding is
an exclamation point;
from between your
thighs
numerals
have fallen.
Please make some tea