I'm sitting on a bed with white linen,
upstairs, on wooden floors and with pale curtains;
eating grapes that I've peeled with my fingertips
and teeth.
I'm either in the room of a lover
or hiding in a lost childhood memory
or waiting for something that's better than
nothing.
Either way, I'm alone. Who brought the grapes?
A man? My mother? No one, the grapes don't exist?
The pale curtains flutter against a wind
A kind hearted zephyr begs to join me
in my solace.
We share grapes in bed.

Who are the Devoted Arsonists Keeping the Flames of Hell Burning?

I need a lawyer
They have plenty

I heard if I toss out a dime
a dozen of them will fall in my lap

I have no problems with them
I have no say

The Devil exists, yes
but he's hardly threatening

He plays squash with God
after a long trial and verdict

After the sentencing of a soul
they laugh over Chinese take-out

Hell isn't as damnable as we imagine
Not if you believe it's healthy to perspire
frequently

I need a bought judge
they have plenty

For Hector, who was anything but subtle





Does anyone really want to know
why someone loves them?
If you knew, would it make
you feel better?
Or would it be another thing to
worry about?
Would it give you something
else to keep up?
Would it be the same if someone left you?
Would you really want to know why?
Would it be better to make
comforting assumptions?
If you knew what made them
fall for you,
would it help when they left?
Would it help knowing that the thing that
made them fall wasn't enough to
keep them around?
How special would that thing be?
Does it really matter?
Does anyone really need to know
these things?

Portrait: Archie Reid (As told by his granddaughter through a cosmic interview)

Sitting in an overstuffed leather chair
Mr. Reid is relaxed.
Loading a pipe with sweet tobacco.
You shouldn't smoke, I say
It'll kill you?
I nod. We have a good laugh
before it gets too bittersweet.

Do you remember me?
Of course I do.
Because I barely remember you,
I fill in the gaps right now.
That's okay. Want a puff of this pipe?
We listen to Beethoven
and that fills a gap.
We write poetry in silence
and that's not real.

Up here, I heard you like William Carlos Williams.
How did you know?
Willy told me. He's a braggart.
Can you tell him I like
his tribute to the common man?
Mm-hm.

Mom misses you.
I know.
I've glorified your past image.
I know.
You're a giant.
Nearly six five.
I don't know about that.

Let's listen to Copeland's
Fanfare for the Common Man.
Yes, let's.

Portrait: Rob C.

A Conrad. The first Hilton
was a Conrad, who was
obsessed with keeping the sheets clean.

He would want me to include
the phrase: "Various stages of
undress." I don't think it fits.
He would like it to fit only
because he's a last born dramatist.
Ugh.

He doesn't dig child-like wonderment
What the hell?
If given the choice, who wouldn't dig
it? A boy who didn't like Charlie Brown
A man who works too seriously when wants to.
But he laughs like that's all neither here
nor there.

I attract madness
wherever I go
It flows like a frothing river
from a dog's mouth
only a dog knows no better
Decorum and chivalry
are thrown out the window
My objectivity is in full view
The separation between
my pussy and my brain
is miles and miles and miles
and the only pit stop on this journey
is a pair of breasts.
The final destination is rarely reached
Ownership is now an issue
All of this
is leased to the lowest bidder
The rent is rarely paid
The madness can't be stopped
nor contained nor reigned.
I lead it wherever I go.

Thoughts on July

I pretended to work
I pretended to like the work
I was momentarily romanced
I enjoyed it tremendously
I missed a friend
I gained a couple
I thought for a while
I thought about the future
I got hot
I eventually worked
I did not like the work
I was left
I did not like that either
I planned
I saved
I lounged
I was busy
I was busy when I needed to be
I talked to people
I built rapport
I waited for a long time
I thought some more
I wrote where I could
I smiled and laughed at the appropriate times
I smiled and laughed everywhere.
I experimented with heady drugs like flattery

I got older

I did not get wiser

I avoided and exploited

I rode
I was ridden
I was ridden by the world, it seemed
I received no breaks
I am fine

Thoughts on Being Stoned

There were many factors
to consider when approaching
my momentary insanity.
Ev was right when she said:
"Your thumb is going to be sore."
She was right when she said that

The first time I inhaled, I told myself:
"I'm fine."
I said that after the first time I inhaled.
And that's where we found the
lapse of rational thinking

Romance

That was what I wanted
I didn't want to say it aloud
I would have shouted it, if I did.

Do my clothes smell like it? Romance?
No, the weed.
The craziness that ensued, remember?
I won't be with someone
who likes dragonflies. That's what I realized.
Loss of function.
Romance ensued.

I started to believe I wanted some of that.
Also, that I wanted goose liver pate
Fois de-something
I wanted shoes too.
I suddenly wanted Mikhail Baryshnikov
to read me poetry

(What do I smell like) Paranoia?
I want to hold hands with someone
who plays Beethoven's something
with his hands.
I am stoned
I am hungry
I can't dance right.

(Is everything just a little too entertaining) Paranoia?
I am slow
I could not make out "relevations" vs. "revelations"
Same word, right?
I didn't ask.

I also wanted someone to "slam fuck" me.
And I can't even take credit for that phrase
It was told to me by a "Mikhail."
When my knees are steady and wrapped
around a man's hips,
I will laugh loudly.
And this man must paint or some shit.

But there were many factors to consider.
I was high, of course.
Cookies and potatos tasted like Apollo's
sunstreaked fingers dipped in Venus' honey.
I can't go around saying shit like this.

Inaccurate and pejorative desires;
I am not devout.
I am too honest right now and still too coherent.