there is a piece of literature out there
waiting for me to inseminate it.
it lies in a gutter somewhere,
or in the woods,
with no concern for the present.
no concern for shelter.
it sits, lies, waits,
walks and paces and worries,
coping with my absense by touching itself into a shuddering cramped pile
breathing like a dog chased a car in the sun through the neighborhood
then overcome with the smell of the heat from another dog.
wet with its own slobber
it is pure temptation throbbing at the body and frothing from every hole.
its obsession is mindless.
drooling on its naked self,
dehydrating and dying.
so wet with want that if it were to find me it would jump into my healthy hands and slip right through their distracted hold;
******* the air until it hit the ground at my feet, then half consciously ******* my toes.
it is muttering my name into a blanket of leaves and trash and squirming with a fever so bright as to bury itself slowly into the soft dirt.
drowning in time.
giving sick births to an excrement of unformed consonants and concepts.
it becomes lines of light
enscribed in a holy vacuum
as i sit here making love to this-

it dies now,
in the very same moment
that i waste my seed uncaringly
on these nice young healthy words
only as a tool to help me sleep.