There is no doubt in my mind
That the poet is the perfect
Idiot-child
So blinded and thunderheaded by seeing
And misunderstanding
That he acts amazed when a black cloud
Appears from a truck
When a flower dances shyly with an insect

When he gets to the page
There is no order or sense
Just heart and mechanic
Bleeding ink
With no sense of order or sense.
He fingerpaints over reality.
Of course no one listens to him
-the babbling- the stupidity- the sordid excellence-

would you?

What I’ve forgotten

is that the sky is unreal
it’s only there for our amusement

is that the world isn’t big and hard
it’s like a broken egg dripping on the kitchen floor

is that feeling is only spider webs in the corners
of stone mazes left alone

is that insanity is like a lock on a door
that hasn’t been invented yet

is that Death is a circus show
for animals who refuse to sleep in cages

is that love isn’t imaginary but as eatable
as the color of the moon

is that life doesn’t change for time’s sake
but that time has forgotten long ago about life

is that the sun is only there for the blind
and only shinning for the skin

what I’ve forgotten in the quiet snow storm of the world
is that maybe there is place for all of us
if
we shrink down to nothing
and let the wind tear us through the uncommon landscapes

is that maybe
may be just may be

While we talk over wine
(I am scared to Death
to step in
I figure it will be a vacant lot
A breathable desert or
A shallow green pool)
You take time with quick smiles
To fill the room with short stories
Your eyes roll in and out
Left then right
Your hair goes along with the rhythm of your words
(And I of course have to stop at the sound
I can’t get any further
You won’t let me
Or
I won’t let me)
And there are moments where we laugh
And moments we could
Have found to cry at
(we are such sensitive creatures
and somewhere in the world
people are at war
or eating
sleeping entangled
or killing out of fun)
And it’s a nice story
Mostly it’s a real story
And those are very hard to find today
(And I think your blood
is a much much much
lighter shade of blue,
mine barely moves anymore)
And it’s a story about the past
Which is convenient
Because you can’t talk about yourself in the present
(And I want to laugh the whole time
but I can’t
but I am thinking:
“Why the **** would anyone want to keep a vulture as a pet?
Do they even make birdcages that strong?”)
Your lips move fast
Then slow
Depending on your words
(And I want to touch them
We are good at the touching)
Then the words stop
And we get along just fine.
(And no one else in the world cares
which is the closest we can get to bliss)

With the folded nights
And the light-hearted howls
There is nothing to do
Really
But dive into nightmares
Or swan fly
Into oceans of cool clean
Or slow locomotive stares

Or when tired eyes
Of pink tell of sordid images
Smokey feelings into small places
Tight skins
The
Click
Clack
Of crowded hearts

Under electric lights
And perfect ballrooms

Shivers run
Up and
Down
And never stop
Because we haven’t found
A middle

I think of your everything
And think it’s all dirt
Under fingernails

Crawling inside
Your tiny mouth
Where I could go insane
And break my face against
The walls

Everything is so
Beautifully open sometimes
It’s hard to make sense

And yes, I mean this
And all that goes after it

People’s plastic toys get *****
People’s veins bleed dry every night
People’s kids disappear
People’s wives and husbands eat each other
People’s noses press against the cold glass

The dogs bark in the fast morning
               And I dare not miss
                              Those types of things

This is just to say
Your porcelain blue eyes stayed with me

I’ll take nothing else
I’ll write it in blood
Never to need:

1) Your birdcage heart
2) Your warm never-ending skin stretched out over black buzzing cities
3) Your cool crawling tongue which takes apart dull sleep-walking loverboys
4) Your white bladed spider hands that have carved dangerous patterns on my new snake-skinned body
5) Your timid dancing breath which echoes through my shaky golden dreams of deadly nothings

But I have your eyes
The wide and clear unopened windows
To your thick-cut glass soul.

My mind
(that tricky grain of sand)
wants you to know this.

I just close my eyes and
Wait for people to appear
Vines entangling me
Letting me stay right where I want
Most
Of you
Go upwards
Striving for beautiful things
Like happiness
And virtue
Christmas Gifts
And big big candles

But I sit making my own light
To line up the long shadows
In theory and in thought
And I can’t desire
Blindly
So most of you say

I need movement into or out of
And in and out of
But I am more virtuous than you
In my filth and my invented songs
Than you ever will be
In your pink houses
And your green roads

Because I have found something
That doesn’t lie inside me
(or all of you)

I have found
That every time I open my eyes
Everything is there
Open-wide and ready to be
Taken

The things have passed
And silent hangovers
And anti-freeze cocktails

I want to keep it in
But there are too many things
Dehydrating  
And the milky sun

And we pass each other around
Like wet cigarettes
And the milky sun
Drips on us

And we say
“uneasy”
because we have no time
to think of anything better

and the silent hangovers
and the anti-freeze cocktails

and women fishing
and kings dying
daughters abandoning
sons stabbing stabbing stabbing

and it will all pass
and we only say that
because we need to fill up
the land
the hearts
the souls
the mouth
the body
the genitals
the claws

and then the cat and mouse games
and the secret meetings

lack.