A negro stands in a doorway with a toothpick
O'Hara wrote it first but what gives me the right--
I once repaired a man's idea of himself, to have him
What was typically a limp anthem, became... you're shattering all my myths
replacing them with falcons, reasons, come to think of it, another way, I am really a
woodcarver and my words are, come to think of it, another way, sand houses and floorplans to swing from like uncandid archetypes, daguerreotypes, the first thing you picture, the last thing you see, and, to rid ourselves of symmetry, dandy/dandy, a head pitched down a little makes you sound like a canoe in calm water, or masks to ward off manufacturers, damn the thieves, destined to get there just in time and face it all: all the thresholds, all the soldiers, all the silver thinking which aches with freedom and soothes with silver falcons, falcon, kinship, action scene, cut.
A negro stands in a garden with a toothpick.. he loved him madly... the lady nearby looks appreciative in headlights, she looks like she grows more beautiful the more weary he reads her face as lyrics and that is all the silence between them and all the noise and news of what's next
