I know his old face from photos.
Crevasses and dried memories and
ancient women cracked smiles and
prunes and peach pits and the most
magnificent poet of his and my day.
He is dead yet alive on my pages.
We live in his age of anxiety so
little read but known in the gut.

"I've been with saints.
I've been with sinners.
They both ruin my knees".
She told me that later.

Just a drop of blood between
me and death. I'm nailed
to your **** cross after
I was soundly flailed.
Who fears my words
enough to **** me?
Who fears the world
enough to free me?

I don't crave attention like other poets.
    I couldn't care less about your opinions.
    You never read my poems anyway. Too long
    or short or blah been done to death yeah.
    I never was published and I'll die on a toilet
    in black and white like Elvis. I'm just you.

Step off a bus and see the
little pieces of you in a storefront
shattered mirror and wonder why you
can't be whole like everyone else.
Then take another ****** to put the
thought back to sleep so you can go
to your shrink appointment.
Get another script for sanity.

I was posed in the bathtub naked
  with a razor on my wrist to die
  the phone rang and went to machine
  my mom said "we hope you're on meds
  take care we love you and I'll call
  tomorrow to check up. I love you."
  I loved my mom more than god but
  I cut big veins and died after all.