He certainly wasn't thinking "the emancipation of dissonance," <br />as Schöenberg put it, slouched as he was, rumpled tie and all <br />from someone across mimicking Evans if it was Walker Evans <br />in those grainy black & white nights with the El rattling home <br />while signals dotting the darkness dawning <br />the same shrouded light the snowdrifts the awnings <br />and dumbwaiters all those under-the-table jobs he'd taken <br />without so much as a flinch, like selling <br />blood or a rare autographed copy or the many lost drafts <br />in pre-war Berlin when the art of taking a walk <br />stretched into shadows obliquely leading you nowhere <br />yes nowhere the damp slipping in quickly. <br />Never mind so far and so near. <br />Never mind the air so heavy with the scent of camel<br /><br />Gerard Malanga<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/edgard-var-se-unawares-in-new-york/
