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.