THE 52ND FLOOR

Purity does not appeal to me. Not the sound
Of a walking stick nor rarified sugar nor coin.
OE in Americanized German is pronounced
Like a long A. I don’t listen to Phillip Glass
But his music makes the best soundtracks.
From the 52nd floor, the sacred heart
Due north, the catacombs far behind, an event
Horizon has been passed, memory of a youth
Under a black light, paging through a Penthouse,
Stereo speakers hanging from the ceiling. So much
Based on Bekenstein’s assumption about entropy,
And I give in and am lost to this energy.
Everything Parisian, forevermore erotic,
Even now I remain dazzled at my body’s ability
To surge and discharge its own bioluminescence.
How can I feel this way in the wake, the wake?