damn the coyotes, they rule the
deserts, they don’t share. so cold out. rain filled cactuses. deep dark blue
eyes. so uncouth of me, on contact, to ask for marriage. so methodical—surefire
protective, dying to break bars.
an ideal creature. searching like
wildness. watching the sun at dawn.
like the last person alive—made receptive—to
a bowel of cries; maniac greenness, abashed sycophants, wondering while dizzy—how
I made it so far.
accused. accursed. a crooked
straight line.
to sip cognac, to cup tomorrow, to
mourn yesterday—the face of the poet, the menu is prose, aside a hybrid
lullaby.
dear fantasies, lost in time, such
a softer odor.
off in traffic, a longer ride,
acting out, subtle gestures — “If you had one wish right now?” Ha. Ha.
like a drug, sensory reaction, such
a body, such a face, such spunk, such an account—of days, eschatology,
cosmology; watching, eating, sniffing—those nights forbidden cries, faithful
aloneness, falling, sleeping, awake at 3 a.m.
confidence is a magnet. so
deranged. the film is recording.
many conundrums, an inner hydrant,
made full on insecurities. such seriousness, lovemaking is serious, so
detached, a man best act right; evening visits, homelife pains, so much to let
go.
around a block, up a street, sits
wishes, hopes, and poverty. around a dream, inside an inward scream, dwells a
candle; another entrance, no exists, each move, every calculation, following
fifty-years into the future.
