WEBVTT

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Sometimes-- "My Sad Self"--

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a poem called "My Sad Self."

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1958.

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Sometimes when my
eyes are red, I

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go up on top of the
RCA building and gaze

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at my world, Manhattan.

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My building.

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Streets I've done feats in.

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Lofts, beds, cold water
flats on Fifth Avenue below,

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which I also bear in mind.

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Its ant cars,
little yellow taxis,

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men walking the size
of specks of wool,

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panorama of the bridges,
sunrise over Brooklyn machine,

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sun go down over
New Jersey, where

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I was born, in Paterson,
where I played with ants,

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my later love on 15th Street.

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My greater loves
of Lower East Side.

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My once fabulous amours
in the Bronx far away.

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Paths crossing in all
these hidden streets.

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My history is summed up.

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My absences and
ecstasies in Harlem.

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Sun shining down on all
I own in one eye blink

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to the horizon in
my last eternity.

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Matter is water.

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Sad.

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I take the elevator
and go down, pondering,

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and walk on the pavement,
staring into all man's plate

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glass.

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Faces questioning
after who loves.

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And stop bemused in front of
an automobile shop window,

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standing lost in calm thought.

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Traffic moving up and
down Fifth Avenue blocks

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behind me waiting
for a moment when--

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Time to go home and cook supper
and listen to the romantic war

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news on the radio.

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All movement stops and I
walk in the timeless sadness

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of existing, tenderness
blowing through the buildings.

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My fingertips touching
reality's face.

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My own face streaked
with tears in the mirror

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of some window at
dusk where I have

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no desire for bonbons
or to own the dresses

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or Japanese lampshades
of intellectuals.

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Confused by the
spectacle around me.

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Man struggling up the street
with packages, newspapers,

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ties, beautiful suits,
towards his desire.

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Man, woman streaming
over the pavement.

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Red lights clocking hurried
watches and movements

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at the curb.

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And all these streets
leading me so cross wise.

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Honking, lengthily.

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By avenues stalked
by high buildings

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or crusted into slums
through such halting traffic.

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Screaming cars and
engine so painfully

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to this countryside, this
graveyard, this stillness.

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On death bed or
mountain, once seemed

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never regained or desired
in the mind to come,

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where all Manhattan that
I've seen must disappear.

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[APPLAUSE]

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