Let Death be spontaneous
as will I
Shakespeare
I am a little boy
drawing the midnight wings of a moth
that I saw in my dreams
on the damp window
of a nomadic van
crossing the sea of a limbo AM highway
1993
Mother mystery night crossing Texan dirt roads
high grass
I am laying with my black lab
Death is a wild animal
birthed in the sands of a desert
that I traveled
****
holding the Bible
holding Hemingway
holding a
sternum of poems
to keep me
weighted from the sky
In a vision
In a vision
As a boy
Crossing the life span of a symphony
Crossing the life span
of a musical note
of a man growing old under a highway neck drinking my whiskey
from my Camel Wise palm
I am grace
I am Evil
I am the Devil's brother
scribbling war paint
on the bathroom walls of
Latin American 24/7 Neon Churches
Blessed with a passion
Blessed with a vision
Blessed with
the Night
on my back
that slants like the sunrise
that slants like
the eyes of a widow'd mother
of a widow'd goddess
of a widow'd song
of a widow'd night
of a widow'd Boy
stretched out on the Lawn
of a rich man
Who sleeps with silk
and hope
And I
I am a child
Exploring the tiny beauties
of things
that do not happen
I open the swede coffin
of imagination
of foot steps
of Beethoven's finger tips
I climb the roof of Death's condo
of Death's shack
of Death's
Widow'd cat
LifeX70
if you are lucky
Emma
girl with black hair
hair like sleep
On a Violin
On a Piano's back
On a Dog's color blind eyeball
Let Death
be spontaneous
I will wait for him
in my stained sweater
holding a bottle of wine
for the two of us
I know he won't say much
like the pavement
I will offer him a glass
Where does the poet go when he dies
Does Death favor him
Does he let him
become a bird
or a crooked lamp post
that shimmers
that shines
Like Youth once did
Highway child
Nomadic boy
falling in love
listening to the shapes
listening to the wrinkling skin
listening to the story
for ******
in a symphony
Aging night
leaning on my window
I would offer you a cigarette
I would offer you inside
But I know your tricks
I know that the moon
is awake
When does
the poem stop
When the poet stops writing
or when the truth is lost
There is a Cicada following me
like rain on her long hair
as she walks to a river
There are too many books poetry
too many lamps that wont let me sleep
too many poems I have stained
too many nights I have lived
Like a Moth
or a wandering bull through a cities lights
I ask April to stop the rain
I can hear scraps
from the storm
falling into the flower ***
where nothing grows
Let Death be spontaneous
and I will study the rain