I was alone and I could do what I wanted,
I was reading again, I was thinking of reading,
I could see the gold inside every heart.
I heard jazz, the world buzzed, it was imaginary.
The jazz explainer spoke, two years
or so went by. I was full of ideas, full of warm ideas,
I was alone inside the tiny chain they made,
I was alone when the make-believe things rose up
and meant to be feared, and I feared them dutifully,
and it rained, skittish clouds clouded up the sky,
a wet pigeon appraised me. I hated the world's
long guesswork, hated its little violations, I hated hats,
I hated hots. I kept telling people Werner Herzog said
it's a humiliation to be anything but I knew he never did,
everything was half true, everything was rising,
somebody's motorcycle was chewing up
the golden air, I listened forever.