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Joseph Cornell
B. 12.24.03 Nyack, New York / D. 12.29.72 Utopia Parkway
Heart Failure

Williamsburg I am too old for you! Get out of my sights—I need them to focus on objects more suitable. How can I manage the feats of hand and eye required if you are lounging there in a belly-shirt raising the rents?

Dear Memory. Near the Metropolitan Avenue stop a time-blackened three-floor wooden tenement still stands inhabited—with window boxes even, trailing flowers down its firetrap front. Note my passing-by thought: I wouldn’t live there. Preserve as well a sliver of the local sexes out at play: All the men were young and slight; the women in their parties went unclaimed.


Soho—so impossible I don’t even pay you any mind anymore—so unlivable at every point beyond the merely unaffordable—so degraded—so presently degraded—what streets:
Love is gone Soho.

I can neither pinpoint nor define the effects of the Aquarian full moon upon me. I can't disengage the switch that may be feeding voltage to my mad side from Anne Heche’s Face. Moon or maiden—I'm feeling dulled-out and generally sore, chilled—almost sunburned. Saw her in person, you see; her and the husband:
What was she thinking?

“I’m the pretty one”—as creed—if they’re fanatics about it they seem to find you Soho—and linger—to loiter in an ecstasy of mantra, internationally inner-tongued—“I’m the pretty one”—deafening:
Love wears out Soho.

“Marry the pretty one.” That’s what Anne Heche—as movie star—did; for she’d had a vision—of the earth a-tilt and her twenties misting away—and the next decades stood naked, revealed—looking more and more like the outskirts of Fresno. So she made for the shade—“Marry the pretty one”—keeping the dew on:
Hated the shoes.

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