Poe--Whitman--
how I cradle your aesthetic!
I sing my body in electrical wires
& hurry the darkness in,
as it is late.
Ms Dickinson,
your fly is now upon my window,
perhaps teasing me at the
sound of my pleas.
Where are you?
Ginsberg you're not talking
to me about god & beauty & life;
Neither shall the
romantic maniacs, nor any
prissy royalty who loved living
their wealth.
Mr. Frost I choose life at the dead end!
Mr. Faulkner I choose to hate you!
Mr. Bukowski I'm sorry you couldn't make it for coffee
you wouldn't have enjoyed the
waitresses anyway.
Neruda, you taught me
nothing of love--you should have--
& W.C. Williams
reading you would defeat
the purpose of trying to die, so as much as it pains me
I'll have to pass,
maybe tomorrow though.