Continental

I want to write my own Mid-American Chant! 
dreadfully evocative — 
seeing trees and singing of concrete and Jersey City, 
[Angels on the Hudson!] 
citing errors in early paintings, illustrating your awful erotic poems 

so I was on the train and two men with English accents 
discussed Southeast Atlantic geography and Sports franchises 
isn’t it funny that the Brooklyn Nets were once the 
New Jersey Nets? Isn’t it sad? 

I want to fall asleep poolside at the Empress Hotel, 
cinderblock walls and neon-menthol hued with splashes 
of fiberglass pink and Miami teal, 
wet-eyed over Isadora Duncan 
and wondering why you ever fucked me. 

I got a postcard of Manuel Osorio by Francisco                                                                                 de Goya from the Met as a prize                                                                                                            for answering a question but 
also for forgetting how old I was when I answered. 
I’ve rearranged all the furniture in my apartment but 
I just want to fall asleep on a bed of flowers 
with a book open on my chest. 

what can’t grape trees do for us? 
there are wind chimes balled up at the back of my throat, 
I didn’t mean for things to end like this, Jennifer L. Diamond. 
nothing will ever find us famous.