George Washington Bridge

George Washington Bridge , Lower Level, Clear Day

Who would want to take

the lower level of the

GW on a crystal clear

day? If I put a fake

ice cube with a cock-

roach in their drink

Would they say any-

thing about it to me?

Would they feel a need

to discuss their right

to choose when faced

with duality? Would their

license plate have sig-

nificance? Would the letters

& numbers undulate like

a snake down the arm of

the Statue of Liberty

at Equinox? Do they like

Jackie Gleason more than

Pee Wee Herman? Have they

written books in Arabic

denouncing Mickey Mouse?

Do they own a string of

zipper factories? Do they

wash each blade of grass

in their yard with a damp

cloth? Do they have dreams

of their parents killing each

other? Are they afraid to

have children? Have they

ever fallen thru ice?

Been stuck in an electric

car between terminals at

the airport in Houston?

Were they children who

had run hotels in Mexico?

Were they child assassins

in Pol Pot’s army? Are they

a child with memories of

helicopters exploding stuffed

inside the body-bag of an

adult driving over the Hudson

River, clear day, on the

George Washington Bridge.

Just someone looking for

a place to rent. Just some-

one on the way to a nursery

to water geraniums &

Easter lilies. Just

someone who uses a Spell

Check. An Image scientist.

just someone doing a little

Inside trade. Had they seen

Yellowstone burn? Did they

carry a pair of Chicago

roller skates in the trunk?

Are there used condoms

in their ashtray? Does

their left rear tire

need a little air? Have

they been to the Panama

Canal? Do they horde toilet

paper in their basement?

Do they sleep with their

students? Had they been

ordered to kill their teacher?

Were there baby shoes

hanging from the rear-view

mirror? How old is their

hairdo? How long are they

planning to wear those

socks? Do they keep the

Christmas lights on their

house up all year? Do they

pray to St. Anthony when

they’ve lost something &

then find it! Are their

headlights on? Do they think

golf would be more inter-

esting if the fairways were

different colors? Do they

believe in Pro Wrestling?

Would they rather see

Llamas than dogs in the subway?

Is it someone related to

George Washington himself!

Could it be! Is it someone

who thinks the Tooth

Fairy real? A policy

strategist? A media wizard?

Maybe you grow ginseng root.

You were the Emperor’s Physician.

A Department of Corrections

officer. A security guard. Just

someone who lives the

house they were born in. The

Mayor—putting homeless

people in a cheap hotel.

Was that a Laundry Worker

on strike driving down onto

the Lower Level? A painter

who saw only Anti-Space? Someone

good with structure? Someone

who didn’t need any.

Were they eating Melba

Toast? Do they know UPS

leases ships to the Navy?

When they shit, do they “Shit

from the heart?” Do they think

water-polo is played with rackets?

Had they learned to react

calmly to the death of strangers?

Do their windshield wipers

work? Do they consider the Cross-

Bronx Expressway “The Drop

Ceiling of Hell?” Are all

their brothers cops? Did

they know Mingus? Do they

live in an apartment full

of writers? When the President

left Washington , did they snap

off a parting salute? Just somebody

behind the wheel, thinking it’s

better to live our lives than

put a price upon them. Just

composing Verse—as in Universe.

As in the Future going on

foot thru a Crowd. Had their

fathers died of nightmares?

Do their sisters have exaggerated

& self-conscious attachments

to the Great Blank Spaces of

American Culture that seem to

reduce them to a tiny yet inextinguish-

able song? Is their greatest vanity

Hairdressing the Hero? Do they see

the bridge as a Rainbow? Do they

think of rainbows as the Ever-Present

Unity Connecting Two Camps? Are

they 72-Hour-Awake-Truckdrivers on

Speed listening to Emmylou Harris

CDs? Does the Brdige remind them of

George Washington, cutting down the

cherry tree? Mother, I cannot tell

a lie. I cut down the Sacred Hoop

today. I cut down the great Tree

of Peace today Mother. Are they

en route to a Ta’i Chi Ballroom

for an evening of Slam Waltzing?

Is this Noise that I hear pieces of

Silence breaking off from the

enormous & dumb & incorrigible

mass inside them? Do they shriek

& squeal—those Tires—or is

that Sound the pressing of human

Energy & Existence upon us, without

there ever being a taking account

of the Destruction? Do the poets

of the Poolhalls dream blue

pizzas thinking of Rilke in Munich

bleeding like the Sun to say “It

lies in the nature of every finally

perfect love that sooner or later

it may no longer reach the loved one

save in the Infinite.” Do they

take this Lower Level for to glimpse

Swans below? Are their Hearts as

tender as the inside of red roses?

January 1989