Tuesday, April 03, 2012
ESCAPE ARTIST 1
I am not here to help.
Arriving in a new town, I claim
my ability to escape from it.
The straightjackets and handcuffs,
myth and misdirection. I am ruinous
to your early Twentieth Century torpor.
When I see an underwater chamber
and a length of chain, I say
it looks like a door—not a trap,
not a menu of confining circumstances.
But when I gaze upon the Capital—
the concept, its obdurate green—
I see a ghost ship
adrift in the Pacific,
captainless and chasing no fish.