written on night sweat
thick thoughts &
puffy, sleepy tricks
dreams approach &
the poet fills his tongue
like a red animal balloon,
twisting ‘til it pops
only the children cry
the rooms in his house:
stairs, dirty bathroom &
black beetles scurrying home
behind peeling plasterboard
something the poet forgot
last Wednesday, no matter...
gray matter doesn’t
still, only the children cry
cursive letters cover his windows,
talking dirty to the elm tree &
green moss on the north side
voices warn of early moon moths
banging against a yellow porch light,
a stub pencil in a blind man’s cup
beneath his sagging bed...the poet
thinks he should use either one
or the other before next spring’s
running of the fucking bulls
i have absolutely no idea what this is about. i read it several times and each time i liked it better. i don't know why, but i like it. i guess it's like an abstract painting. Don't figure it, just enjoy it. well, i enjoyed it.
...well, if you like it, that's good enough for me...
(try it again thinking the poet has writer's block or try reading it again after knowing i went to an early screening of the new Bukowski film that was filmed in St. Paul...or just like it for what it is. either/either way...thanks...