You took pictures

of murder victims, murderers,

whores cuffed at the ankles --

strapped to one another.

Your biographers wrote that you slept

in a bug heap across

from the station, jimmied

your scanner on its frequency,

left when the squad cars did.

You thought lookers-on

telling as the scene,

shot women and school kids

eager to watch.

New York

in the 40s was gruesome.

I want to shake your bones

out of the grave --

the city's the same;

the country's the same;

some still play

mysterious stakes, Ouija.

The planchette writes

its automatic hand while

I sift a confluence of

shards and festering scabs you

scratched off the inner city.