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.

it's the same as before
or the other time
or the time before that.
here's a ****
and here's a ****
and here's trouble.

only each time
you think
well now I've learned:
I'll let her do that
and I'll do this,
I no longer want it all,
just some comfort
and some ***
and only a minor
love.

now I'm waiting again
and the years run thin.
I have my radio
and the kitchen walls
are yellow.
I keep dumping bottles
and listening
for footsteps.

I hope that death contains
less than this.

Homily in dueces, wrecked beyond comprehension.
Half starved, swelling throngs of disbelievers,
Half true eulogies eulogizing the still-living, undulating ghosts that whip to and fro between one righteous thought and one sin.
Undaunted in fear do I stand before thee.  
Unheard do I scream a name that can never answer me, as the human attached to it has nothing more to give.
Haunted by my own self.

Stance
Energy
Attitude
Intent
Direction
Destination
Resolution
Pr­ogress

Flashing hot in anger mounting,
Last words not making any sense
To me, you or anyone, present or absent.

Slowly ebbing as the heart beats mellower, more slowly than before.

What happened?

In the night, I see moistness.
Heavy dew smells clean,
The aftermath of morning.