The beauty of your face is glittery.
Your white teeth sparkle like the winter's snow.
Your figure possess God's best pottery.
The whole of you is just a shout of wow.

A man you kisses with the sweetest lips of yours,
will never want to let you go at all.
Your **** caress wipes away all bores.
On head of yours,no man get tire to brawl.

But truly,I will never marry you.
Depart from me! I do not like your ways.
To God Almighty do you often boo.
Your inner character doesnt really pays.
     (To Youngmen)      
Don't fall in love satisfy your eyes.
Don't marry *** or beauty, be you wise!

How is it that you are already tired

I drew a picture,
so simple and clean.

I drew on it canvas,
so ugly and mean.

I drew with it crayon
with red and black.

I drew it with anger
with a knife in my back.

I drew from my mind
and things that you hid.

I drew from inside
and hole that you dig.

I drew a picture,
thought it was cute.

I drew it on canvas,
thought I killed you.

"--you know, I've either had a family, a job, something
has always been in the
way
but now
I've sold my house, I've found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I'm going to have a place and
the time to
create."
no baby, if you're going to create
you're going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you're going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you're on
welfare,
you're going to create with part of your mind and your
body blown
away,
you're going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you're going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquakes, bombardment,
flood and fire.
baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don't create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.

be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain

who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.

juggling mates
and
attitudes

their
confusion is
constant

and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.

beware of them:
one of their
key words is
"love."

and beware those who
only take
instructions from their
God

for they have
failed completely to live their own
lives.

don't feel sorry for me
because I am alone

for even
at the most terrible
moments
humor
is my
companion.

I am a dog walking
backwards

I am a broken
banjo

I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio

I am a man
eating a meal
this night
in the month of
September.

put your sympathy
aside.
they say
water held up
Christ:
to come
through
you better be
nearly as
lucky.