a poem by Mark Young


                        So that, coming back,
                        he could find his
                        way, he laid down
                        markers. Pistachios
                        from his pocket. The 
                        Greek alphabet. Words
                        chosen at random.
Such variety. Slept when he got to where he was going. Came back in sunlight, found food on the journey. Thought about his place in the scheme
of things as he walked his way from omega down to alpha. The words were redundant— though sometimes he picked them up, made poems out of them.


                        When power plants throw 
                        away the same amount of
                        waste heat as the energy 
                        they generate, a search for a 
fixed point is pure instru- mental indulgence. So many targets; no way to tell when the process will end
if one begins considering spiritual questions seriously. On the cooling pond black swans glide by. A harpist
plays Pachelbel's Canon in D Minor. A man & a woman share a telephone line. They despise each other.


                        I brought my dog on a cool
                        day. 1060 people were here
                        in the sweeping lobby of 
                        the hotel. It took my breath 
away. Most of these slaves were once held in New York: a new trafficking reality is challenging; the geographical
scope of activity has been expanded to explore new markets. Incoherent realities out of a nation that thinks
itself civilized. Weiner's phrase no longer a Legerian depiction of the geometry of an excursion to the beach. Now
become a symbol for sex worker solidarity. Begun with a march at the Venice Biennale. Carried on under the red umbrella.