(2013)
now, I’m no Bukowski but my friends who don’t like poet… except his stuff, tell me they like mine, and I can drink like a drinking machine
the very idea that i could be
we are nearly always a world which almost
unspeakable dearth of nutrient the cause of the complaint, lack of the sweet titmilk of human connection,
better fucking eat it all up. time is getting drunk & may puke, be rude, before finally
like bell bottoms or disco but we need it to think i’m dead
why is nothing i can do now. where it went. what that echo means, if anything
a few hundred million dying days later he emerges into crazy
man, it’s hard to come down from impossible hopes seemingly
life and even one good thing– anything, a course in wonders becomes? no school, thanks not for me. no lesson one so likes declaring to find itself legs. no
god is unwelcome in suburbia, the cells are too comfortable there, & love rests best under stars.
nobody goes mad on purpose, also never is it not shared,
my spirit sings to you, clears and quickens. losing you is impossible
i love you for the doubt you show me still possible in this body where you show me
so, i’m in this spiritual war. maybe you aren’t, but i am. many great losses
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