has me writing a hundred lines of poetry a day.
They all begin and end the same:
water trickling over rock in the pit of the stomach of the world.
In the wasteful heart I sleep,
gone from myself, while
a thimble of all things sweet,
sugar and honey mixed,
pour over the inner workings of mind
naked to skin of salt and tongue.
Imagine yourself immersed
in fire then water then whispers and moans.
Are you moving out of your mother's house?
Are you riding a flat tired bike
down Locust Avenue, spindly legs
pedaling with fury? In the back
of a local library, no Ferlinghetti found,
I pull down your jeans and panties
and put my mouth to your cunt.
Wet with rain -
wet strands of hair slick to your cheeks -
the streets slowly slip off the earth into black waters.
From your window you imagined yourself here.
I exist only in your bored and anguished mind;
and I don't mind - it's a good place to be found.
Under a black sky, heavy with orphic dreams,
strange beasts of iron and sleep welcome us to the garden;
all concrete and dead trees; all crosses
twisted and hung from the railings of bridges
like unmourned suicides.
I shall whisper something in your ear
about the color of salt and ash
and you shall hold it to your mouth
after I'm gone.