I lie on my back at midnight
hearing the marvelous strange chime
of the clocks, and know it's mid-
night and in that instant the whole
world swims into sight for me
in the form of beautiful swarm-
ing m u t t a worlds-
everything is happening, shining
Buhudda-lands,
bhuti

blazing in faith, I know I'm
forever right & all's I got to
do (as I hear the ordinary
extant voices of ladies talking
in some kitchen at midnight
oilcloth cups of cocoa
cardore to mump the
rinnegain in his
darlin drain-) i will write
it, all the talk of the world
everywhere in this morning, leav-
ing open parentheses sections
for my own accompanying inner
thoughts-with roars of me
all brain-all world
roaring-vibrating-I put
it down, swiftly, 1,000 words
(of pages) compressed into one second
of time-I'll be long
robed & long gold haired in
the famous Greek afternoon
of some Greek City
Fame Immortal & they'll
have to find me where they find
the t h n u p f t of my
shroud bags flying
flag yagging Lucien
Midnight back in their
mouths-Gore Vidal'll
be amazed, annoyed-
my words'll be writ in gold
& preserved in libraries like
Finnegans Wake & Visions of Neal

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the ****** and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to ***** up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

we were tense as matchsticks-
                  my love and I,
                  tucked into the beat-up, secondhand sofa,
                  I whispered, "I want to distract you,"
                  and with each slow syllable her desperate grip
                  cut deeper into my thigh.
the sitcoms and the summer friends-
           well, they all tease
           the aching head rushes
                            and
           the itchy fingertips,
           "could I get you something to drink?"
           yesyesyes, 5-parts *****/one part tonic water/a pinch of lime.
the party died down-
    grabbed my hand rushed me to the bedroom,
    struck your body against
    hungry mine, and
                                       we were lit.
what was it Spencer said?
something like:
all fires must burn alive, to live.
it's safe to say,
he was right.

I am held in the scene by strings,
strings caressing, cutting the city's screams,
screams of jubilation and screams of paranoia,
paranoia at the approaching deadline,
deadlines always on our minds,
mind if I stroll through the wall of hate,
hate from your grey eyes,
eyes framed with your bright blonde hair,
hair that once before was described by my pen.

I killed you in a ****-poor short story.
I gave you a symbolic death.
It was a generous offering of peace.

Redemption earned but already forgotten,
forgotten along with those nostalgic rhymes locked,
locked in tightly formed verses of love poetry,
poetry for a tethered future,
future? Even Zion was built on ruins.

I killed your lover, too.
I sent her up in flame.
It was hard to have a habitual evening.

don't speak, even if spoken to
2. don't listen or attempt to empathize
3. don't comb your hair
4. don't shave
5. don't give your time to past lovers
6. turn off your computer and phone
7. tell your mother you aren't coming home
8. blow up your bridges
9. forget your name and friends as they were as synthetic as television sets.
10. and never ever smile

the weepies and worrieds will tell you there is a bible.
there is comfort in god.
and all you think is,
yeah, i already tried that scene.

the relatives and the rationals will tell you life is only as good as you make it.
perhaps when you fake it.

the lustful and the clinging ex-lovers will tell you they have seen beauty in you,
remind them of damage done.

go on solo strolls.
read poetry that
deals solely with
fire and brimstone.
and never ever smile.

and you will be just as satisfied with your plight,
as this vapor,
who already took his flight.

there is a
way,
  a truth,
       and a light,
and
  I'm often
    reminded,
        it isn't mine.

there is a tradition
and a constitution,
gods in powder wigs
talking through their
wooden teeth,
and I'm often reminded
my thoughts are fiction.

all new friends are quickly
old,
all parents
die of heart attacks
after analyzing high crimes.

there is a
way,
  a truth,
       and a light,
and
  I'm often
    reminded,
        it's outta my sight.

there is a piece of Anna's hair in my teeth,
there are blackbirds circling in a hollow sky,
and I'm supposed to have no doubts,
and I'm supposed to avoid shouts.

all babes get slutty or drown in bongwater,
and I'm expected to call them cute,
all patterns have a strange affinity for ******* me,
and all love is adrift in a staggering, stagnate sea.

there is a
way,
  a truth,
       and a light,
and
  I'm often
    reminded,
        I'm out of line.

they will smoke cheap, borrowed cigarettes.
they will drink cheap, borrowed *****.
and they will stay miles away.
and they will experience the most complex emotions.

writing small town songs,
dealing with cheating girls
              and
****** bags and godliness.

they will play at veteran bars.
they will play at festivals.
and they will flicker.
and they all will dissolve.

living at home with mom.
dealing with whiny girls
                and
******* and defense mechanisms.