I am the creator and the created,
that
which mates and is mated.
The
circle is eternal and perfect.
There
is no conductor on the New Haven line
to
announce your destination.
There
is no terminal point.
There
is no station.
I
am the maker of circles.
I
am the maker of time.
I
am the New Haven conductor,
and
my pocket watch always rhymes.
Time
is a fisherman’s line
that
catches the cleaning woman
in
a Lower East Side house of cards,
that
catches her son who’s dealing in the park
when
he’s not traveling a line of cocaine
that
has no terminal point, no station.
I
am the fisher of pleasure and pain.
The
circle is a line.
The
black boy rolls the metal rim
down
the hill with a stick.
Form
and function are the same.
I
am the boy and the rim and the stick.
I
am the arrow of time.
Hamlet
said he could live in a nutshell
and
call himself king of infinite space.
An
off-Broadway play opened in Elsinore town.
I
was the understudy who slipped in for Hamlet,
melancholy
king of infinite place
but
otherwise detained by a gravedigging clown.
A
psych inventory said I was paranoid.
I
love everybody but to hell with the rest.
I
have amyloid folded in my brain,
or
so says the CAT scan, the Eye of Horus.
My
pocket watch always rhymes.
He
who is not against us is for us
when
traveling the New Haven line.
I’m
the psychologist who made the test.
~William Hammett
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