“I’ve traded sweet lines for answers …” They don’t serve me anymore.”

So Going Around Cities

by Ted Barrigan (2007)

“I order you to operate, I was not made to suffer.”

Probing for old wills, and friendships, for to free

to New York City, to be in History, New York City being

History at that time.” “And I traded my nights

for Intensity; & I barter my right to Gold; & I’d traded

my eyes much earlier, when I was circa say seven years old

for ears to hear Who was speaking, & just exactly who

was being told….” & I’m glad

                  I hear your words so clearly

                  & I would not have done it

                                differently

                  & I’m amused at such simplicity, even so,

inside each & every door. And now I’m with you, instantly,

& I’ll see you tomorrow night, and I see you constantly, hopefully

though one or the other of us is often, to the body-mind’s own self

more or less out of sight! Taking walks down any streets, High

Street, Main Street, walk past my doors! Newtown; Nymph Rd

            (on the Mesa); Waveland

Meeting House Lane, in old Southampton; or BelleVue Road

            in England, etcetera

Other roads; Manhattan; see them there where open or shut up behind

            “I’ve traded sweet lines for answers …”

They don’t serve me anymore.” They still serve me on the floor.

            Or,

as now, as floor. Now we look out the windows, go in &

            out the doors. The Door.

(That front door which was but & then at that time My door).

            I closed it

On the wooing of Helen. “And so we left schools for her.” For

She is not one bit fiction; & she is easy to see;

            & she leaves me small room

For contradiction. And she is not alone; & she is not one bit

            lonely in the large high room, &

invention is just vanity, which is plain. She

is the heart’s own body, the body’s own mind in itself

            self-contained.

& she talks like you; & she has created truly not single-handedly

Our tragic thing, America. And though I would be I am not afraid

            of her, & you also not. You, yourself, I,

Me, myself, me. And no, we certainly have not pulled down

            our vanity: but

We wear it lightly here,

                                       here where I traded evenly,

                                                                                    & even gladly

health, for sanity; here

                                    where we live day-by-day

                                                                             on the same spot.

My English friends, whom I love & miss, we talk to ourselves here,

            & we two

rarely fail to remember, although we write seldom, & so must seem

            gone forever.

In the stained sky over this morning the clouds seem about to burst

            What is being remembering

Is how we are, together. Like you we are always bothered, except

            by the worst; & we are living

            as with you we also were

fired, only, mostly, by changes in the weather. For Oh dear hearts,

When precious baby blows her fuse / it’s just our way

            of keeping amused.

That we offer of & as excuse. Here’s to you. All the very best.

            What’s your pleasure? Cheers.