humble letters, sane letters, and, at last, violent letters;
she was his arms and legs and maybe for awhile
his heart.
sometimes she did. often she did.
i said, no, not her.
they said, yes, her.
i saw these smiling creatures.
tragic yet somehow calm.
smiling, shining, singing
somebody you could talk to in bed for
an hour or two before going to
sleep.
her grandmother is a hawk of a woman.
her mother is a psychotic lover of life.
forget it, forget it.
you must begin all over again.
throw all that out.
all of them out.
you are alone with now.
—but once you get the taste, it’s good to get your
teeth into
words. I forgive those who
can’t quit.
for there was nothing left
for us.
there was a sense
of unreality.
one becomes so tired one
becomes so dazed,
that there is confusion and
anguish mixed in with the
deadliness.
the male heart weighs 10 to 12
ounces.
“thinking is not the same as
knowing”
and i will remember your room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your music
your books
our morning drinks
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
“he’ll be your demise”
as i sit here inside my self
creating half-felt emotions
the last cigarettes are smoked, the loaves are sliced,
and lest this be taken for wry sorrow,
drown the spider in wine.
you are much more than simply dead:
i am a dish for your ashes,
i am a fist for your vanished air.
sifting out all the impossibilities.
this is a denouement, baby, because
you told me that you were different
than the others
but how different?
there are days
when it all goes
wrong.
continual
uninterrupted
ferocious
haphazard
assaults
on what
is left of
your
sanity and
sensibilities.
your nerves simmer
until they’re
raw.
then
there’s always
—suddenly—
a bright
smiling face
with dim eyes.
i need good nights like this
in between.
you need them too.
without them
no bridge would be
walkable.
i am burning in hell
some place north of Mexico.
flowers don’t grow here.
I am not like
other people.
other people are like
other people.
my heart is a thousand years old.
old voices, old songs are a
snake which crawls
away.
men go mad looking into empty faces.
why not?
what else is there for them to do?
i have done it.
the eye at the bottom of the bottle
winks back.
it’s all a trick.
everything is an illusion.
there must be something better somewhere.
but where?
not here.
not there.
slowly one crawls toward imbecility,
welcoming it like a lost
lover.
it could be worse, it will be.
