Jim is hungry. Hungry and tired.
Tired of shopping for his new image.
Tired of stealing ideas from Allen Ginsberg.
Tired of going into the neon market of dreams,
shopping at night,
nothing but brain-dead avocados and Marcus Garvey’s goddam watermelons.
I saw you, says Jim, down by the meats in the refrigerator,
killing the pork chops. Are you my Angel?
Jim wanders in and out of his brilliant imagination and strides down his open solitary doors.
In which way do his dreams teach and go out on a smoking bank and stand watching the black water?