WEBVTT

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And this is a different
kind of city poem.

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It's kind of an old city poem.

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Poem's called "The
Marvels of the City."

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No city in particular
but all cities.

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Actually, I was in London
when this hit me, this notion.

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It's a kind of a composite
city made up of other cities.

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"The Marvels of the
City," "I went down

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to a tree-lined
street of false gods,

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the cobbled streets
of two wise monkeys,

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the street of
roasted nightingales,

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the small twisty streets
of the insomniacs,

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the street of those
who feather their beds.

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That's right, the street
of the dog's metaphysics.

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The dark alley of the
emperor's favorite barber

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with its fountain
and stone lion.

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The closed shutters
and the street

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of the 100-year-old harlot.

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The flag bedecked courthouses
and banks and the square

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of the betrayed revolution.

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Here at last, I thought,
feeling a rush of blood.

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The street of eternal
recurrence and its proof.

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The tavern at the sign of
the Pig and the Seraphim.

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Erudite salamanders sipping
wine of Arctic vintage,

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how much wine, the
wine of stargazers,

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loveless couples, the
wine of idiot savants.

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We are solely of
the mind, said one.

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Beyond good and
evil, said another.

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But the waiters, black hair
growing out of their ears,

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just took our orders
and said nothing.

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