Minutes to Go

Ιf you wish to hide something

 it is simply necessary to create disinterest 

in the area where it is hidden.

Ι spent two months in the morgue

making time maps of the city.

What did the streets you walk look like yesterday? 

And the day before? A month ago? A year ago?

What store, what building was there that it isn't there now?

That second-hand book shop right opposite
to the old cemetery is not there anymore.

Unknown evenings and strange memories.

Cigarette smoke curling in black pubic hairs.

Pimples of light along naked thighs.

An old typewriter typing by itself

the story of the death of an iceberg.
The night was darker  than a bullet trauma
every road in the city  pressed close, suffocating.

The city was like Moscow in the wilderness

 like a total assault on the culture.

You're locked out of time

you've ran out of doorways

while revolvers aimed at you at any given time.

I was waiting  like a gun in a locker an old Colt 1911  that some retired Los Angeles detective  used to carry along with his badge in a dusty coat's pocket back in the 40s. I saw you take a bullet to the head.

Your body disappeared behind closing elevator doors.

But why after every last wound, was there always another one?

Don't let them see us.

Don't let them know who we are.

Don't let that out.

Minutes to go.

Seconds to go.

Squeezing the air that we breathe.

Minutes to go.

You have the wrong name and wrong number.

And I have not come here to explain or tidy up

you liars, you traitors, you apes, you dogs.

I have not come to explain 

how the blood and bones and brains and guts 

of a hundred million more or less gooks 

went down the drain in green piss.

We have had enough of your con and bullshit.

Don't let them see us, don't tell them what we are doing.

Don't let that out.

Minutes to go. Seconds to go.
From A go to B
(if you can find it)