you just took it.
like it was the last piece of gum
like you could return it if it didn't fit
or sew some cute buttons on it to make it look better.
but that was mine.
and I liked it just the way it was ,
it didn't need altering.
I didn't mind at the time because
I loved you.
I loved you.
I loved you.
loved.

because green leaves
and restoration sunshine
bore the hell out of me.

because love for me
has never been forever,
just a face i show for a scene.

because spring and winter
for me never exist,
i seem to live in the months inbetween.

because at the surface
my subject matter deals
with nothing past my *** drive.

because every word i use
is a staple of every
third graders' vocabulary

because this poem doesn't rhyme.

because i write stark reality
instead of romantic
imagination.

because they aren't me.
every poet may be their biggest critic,
but they're also their biggest fan.

Kissing, supporting—
then sniffing, then snorting:
Xanax, ******, Tylenol.
Alcohol will never expire
dealer, buyer—
you're getting higher and—and—and
Louder, louder—
you're drowning in prescription powder.

You're given ***, speed, salvation
It's not love, it's medication.

I long to feel your childish, unseductive touch.

The feeling of your disinterest in a state of arousal is that of a crime scene.
You investigate me with cold, unfeeling eyes
and your hands are all the worse.

The music you insist on playing is unsensual
and distracting
but you say it gives you something to do
while you’re ******* me.

Your youthful face does not even contort in pleasure,
my name never passes your lips,
yet I need more of you.

I try not to finish in your allotted time period
so I can keep you close
for as long as possible.

But your lack of eroticism gets to me
and I explode.
You dress and leave
without so much as a “good-bye.”

Maybe next time you will smile.

down
  down
    down
      down
        down
          down
            deep
              below

children of the caves will let their
secret fires glow
~~~

An explosion of birds
Dawn
Sun strokes the walls
An old man leaves the Casino
A young man reading pauses
on the path to the garden
~~~

Bitter winter
Fiction dogs are starving
The radio is moaning softly
calling to the dogs
There are still a few
animals left in the yard

Sit up all night,
talking smoking
Count the dead & wait
’til morning
Will warm names & faces
come again
Does the silver forest end?
~~~

December Isles
Hot morning chambers
of the New Day
Idiot first to awaken (be born)
w/shadows of new play
learned men
in Sunday best
we’ve had our chance to rest
to mourn the passing of day
to lament the death of our
glorious member
(she whispers secret messages
of love in the garden
to her friends, the bees)
The garden would be here
forevermore
~~~

Mexican parachute
Blue green pink
Invented of Silk
& stretched on grass
Draped in the trees
of a Mexican Park
T-shirt boys in their
Slumbering art
~~~

-I fear that he’s been
maim’d beyond all
recognition

He hears them come &
murmur over his corpse.

Street Pizza.
~~~

funny,
I keep expecting a
knock on the door
well, that’s what you
get for living around
people

a Knock? would shatter
my dreams’ illusions
deportment & composure
The struggle of a poor poet
to stay out of the grips
of novels & gambling
& journalism
~~~

A quality of ignorance,
self-deception may be
necessary to the poet’s
survival.
~~~

Actors must make us think
they’re real
Our friends must not
make us think we’re acting

They are, though, in slow
Time

My wild words
slip into fusion
& risk losing
the solid ground

So stranger, get
wilder still

Probe the Highlands
~~~

Bourbon is a wicked brew, recalling
courage milk, refined poison
of cockroach & tree-bark, leaves
& fly-wings scraped from the
land, a thick film; menstrual
fluids no doubt add their splendour.
It is the eagle’s drink.
~~~

Why do I drink?
So that I can write poetry.

Sometimes when it’s all spun out
and all that is ugly recedes
into a deep sleep
There is an awakening
and all that remains is true.
As the body is ravaged
the spirit grows stronger.

Forgive me Father for I know
what I do.
I want to hear the last Poem
of the last Poet.