this time for real.
there’s something here, but I don’t
what it is: something between
of boredom, depression, inebriation,
of alarm clocks, traffic jams, loose change,
of job applications, therapists, long lines
at the gas-station,
the something between the something
it breathes and it breeds as a stillborn,
out of the habit, holding on…broken
fingers and all.
it won’t die, and it won’t
win; the belly shows white,
but it isn’t pure.
it knows no purity, incapable
of impurity, a conundrum
of congress, mistake
of mistakes, folly of an epic
look close, and you’ll
see it, soaked in the rain
under the awning
of a deli,
hitching a ride on main street, getting home
to baby-sit. listen intently,
gently so gently, and it moans
‘ fuck…shit…goddamn, pig-thief.’
there’s no time to be Lost,
no excuse to be Beat,
Love? I got your Love…
just forgot where I put it.
and if the stranger comes around, telling me
what I’m looking for, selling that
re-cycled meat on splinter-fractured bones
threaded in limp-wrist veins,
tell him I said hello, but really, the freezer’s
I know he’s selling life-insurance
gonna save me.
tell him to leave his number
on the table.