a liar once told me that i write good poetry i laughed and continued drinking, the sudden rush of despair, the wicked beast, the dry pages the man had no credentials but he persisted, declaring me an inspiration like seeing a strand of hair attract a magnet or amber jewels lolling in a dimly lit case
imagination is a felony, i wagered as i poured another a combustion i know like the back of my hands i told him i dreamt of a morgue where everyone i ever loved sat upright as sunflowers, declaring their love for the sun and of a newspaper rife with disease and the passion of a janitor
there is a raccoon near a river somewhere cleaning an apple with a heart as big as an artist in drunken euphoria taking better care of it than me when i sit down at a typewriter it's wearing a cape just like edgar allen poe and having better conversation with an oak tree than i've ever had at a party about the sunday crossword puzzle he completedΒ Β
yesterday i drank myself into a masquerade ball arriving in a limousine being driven by a bearded mickey mantle i was the guest of honor, sword fighting on table tops and lecturing the guests about shakespeare through a garbage disposal while a horse played backgammon with my father's brother and there was a girl there behind the facade of an owl who danced like the wind and everlasting light and no one could stop her or look her in the eye
i am the only connection between my mind and the paper merely a vessel, a john boat clearly breaching it's depth either drowning like a fish in a sand dune or being bounced like a baby on the knee of god slavery, i call it, and hand him a glass of warm bourbon as the splashing of my journal pages slap my crushed trachea
the typewriter is padlocked and painted over with cement the metamorphosis trapped inside a bullet, boiling with sheer fury