There's a lot that a bird doesn't know, but that doesn't change the fact that the world is happening to her all the same. The course of my life is changing and, without close thought, I wouldn't even see it.

Past the deep Gotham of my eyes --
     The authority of my headache reads
     The graffiti of the prophets -- scribbled
     On the back walls of the train-station:
          
           Commute, work, commute, eat,
           Commute, work, commute, sleep;
           Work  Buy  Die
           And Say AYE-AYE, Sir.

     How many Dear Mr. Heartbreak letters
     Have been etched here -- (I cannot say how many) --
     Deep in the Gotham of my eyes --
     Cold as a city empty of alleys --

     Maybe I'll please the philistines,
     With much talk of good money. I'll study
     Their scriptures about the nonsense of art.
     At last I'll make good --

     I'll finally make them happy.
     I'll try a new part in my hair.
     Maybe I'll put down this pen; stop these letters.
     From now on, I'll express myself in tears.

It breaks my heart when you drive away

Hands where
They are not welcome
Against flesh too young
And too willing to please
Pushing to break the last barrier
That separates
Innocence
From exploitation
Lips parting what should be closed
Taking what is not theirs
And can never be given back
A body demands
As the other yields
Bending to its will
And calling it "love"

be a poet,
if you must...
but know this,
from one who cares.

it is an addiction,
that will cause strife.

you will,
learn stuff,
you never really wanted
to know.

you will,
find pieces
of your soul,
best forgotten.

you will,
stay awake
late into the night,
trying to twist a phrase
til, it turns out just right.

there will be,
tears and much,
frustration.

at times you will,
neglect your, everyday
life.

oh there will be, angst
and fear
as you let your poems go
and see your words fly...
or plummet to the unforgiving ground.

and yes i cannot deny
there will be joy,
much euphoric joy,
as you discover
new words
with which, to toy.

so be a poet, if you must
if you have,
a liking for
garrets and starvation.
enough to offset your
word lust.

...just be original
don't be a parrot
write for you first
and then for others
strive for exquisite
excellence....
but now it is
a fragile dissapearing
thing....


it is your life
you get to choose
your own folly...

I set it on fire.

Millions of sparks
Rise up swirling.
Dancing.

Perhaps you've seen
Them rising over
The smoke

(where there's smoke there's fire)

Perhaps you've caught
A few in mason jars

(they aren't fireflies you know)

Perhaps you think
They're pretty...

THEY'RE NOT.

they

are

the

remnants

of

my

heart

going

down


i­n


FLAMES


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