Poor Bedlamb

Now is a Winter and then contemptuously hot.
Our New York has made a Glorious Summer
And its gale blows in from the South.
What is there to do about it
I will become something else or else
I will be forced to rise to the top
of a pile of corpes. Lighting them on
Fire before studying them - the great
Dead who truly have made themselves
Available to me. In writing and in celluloid
Visions of flesh and blood. And, of course,
In that Great Gift of Education!