Dear, though the night is gone,
Its dream still haunts today,
That brought us to a room
Cavernous, lofty as
A railway terminus,
And crowded in that gloom
Were beds, and we in one
In a far corner lay.

Our whisper woke no clocks,
We kissed and I was glad
At everything you did,
Indifferent to those
Who sat with hostile eyes
In pairs on every bed,
Arms round each other's neck,
Inert and vaguely sad.

O but what worm of guilt
Or what malignant doubt
Am I the victim of,
That you then, unabashed,
Did what I never wished,
Confessed another love;
And I, submissive, felt
Unwanted and went out?

who knows if the moon’s
a baloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky—filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their baloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where

always
            it’s
                   Spring)and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves

My business is words. Words are like labels,
or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
I confess I am only broken by the sources of things;
as if words were counted like dead bees in the attic,
unbuckled from their yellow eyes and their dry wings.
I must always forget how one word is able to pick
out another, to manner another, until I have got
something I might have said...
but did not.

Your business is watching my words. But I
admit nothing. I work with my best, for instances,
when I can write my praise for a nickel machine,
that one night in Nevada: telling how the magic jackpot
came clacking three bells out, over the lucky screen.
But if you should say this is something it is not,
then I grow weak, remembering how my hands felt funny
and ridiculous and crowded with all
the believing money.

Claim the heart that will love.
Blame the name that will hate.
Tame the soul that will rise above.
Fame the hand that will save.
A game of life so grand, never lost nor won, is fate.

Runnin', really runnin'


I sit here,
lookin' at my loose skinned animals

just lyin' there.

And I think, (as is my way),

"How lucky they are

just lyin' there

with nothing to do."

Oh yes.

Well I know for certain

the cats

are always doin' just what
they wanna do.

They intersect with me
at the food bowl,
at their, (you know), leisure.

The dog,
on the other hand,
(She's a Pharoh Hound),

that's right,

She's curled up in
the big green arm chair.

And she's dreamin'

about runnin' across
Abysinian deserts

chasin'

long legged antelopes
in the hot shifty sands.

And she's runnin',

And she's runnin',

really runnin',

and

I wake her up,

and

she's  back here
curled up

in the big green arm chair.

And then I get
the disconcerting thought,

"When was the last time

I was runnin',

runnin',

really runnin' ?"

Maybe

I've been curled up here
in the big green arm chair,

You know,

Domesticated,

Dreamin'.

And my skin

sure as hell ain't loose.

everything is edging to a near
everyone is safe on their feet
but im leaning on my toes
looking down into an endless pit
once dropped in
i can never return
i can never come back
as the same old me
the darkness from the pit rises
i haven't even fallen in but the smell is to much to handle
this darkness sticks with you
it tints your skin
it gets deep into your bones
where water can't reach
so even if you manage
to claw your way out
you would just want to jump back in
because the fact is that
this darkness leaches off of you
you can never pull it off
it will convince you it is right
and again you're back on your toes