I want to write the poem
you always quote to impress
friends at Hampton parties
and read to your children
so they understand why this
whole mad spinning life is
worth the price of admission.
We might be born in a manger.
We might be Mary Magdalen.
We might be a million peasants.
Nobody will ever remember a
million peasants. We know Christ.

I live day shifts. You live night shifts.
   Lovers living through different lives.
   We have a grown girl and dogs and a cat.
   I want more and you want more. Goodbye.

I exist inside a tiny space of your heart
called my universe I'll never understand.
You blind me with your drunken rage.
I'll never see your stars inside my eyes.
I remember your taste and white heat
burning me as I go down in your flames.

What am I?
You can't fix it,
can't make them forget it.
You can't take it away from them.
You can only treat it with respect.
It's peoples' pain and they own it.

The late 60's were sirens singing from
  Ulysses rocky shores. We smoked their
  joints and dropped their acid and betrayed
  our other lives. We grew long hair and we
  were groovy and far out, dressed as peacocks
  we ate from the feast until we had our fill.

Someone will die tonight.
Someone will be born and
someone will be admitted
to a mental hospital.
Someone's going to jail
and the City eats them.