225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?

self-congratulatory nonsense as th
famous gather to applaud their see
greatness
you
wonder where

here I am
in the ground
my mouth
open
and

They don’t make it
the beautiful die in flame—
suicide pills, rat poison, rope wh
ever...
they rip their arms off,

I took my girlfriend
to your last poetry reading,
she said “yes”,
“yes?” I asked.
"she`s young and pretty",

I was a bum in San Francisco but
to go to a symphony concert along
and the music was good but somethi
audience was not
and something about the orchestra

too much too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody.
laughter or

the hearse comes through the room
the beheaded, the disappeared, the
mad.
the flies are a glue of sticky pas
their wings will not

I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,

at their best, there is gentleness
some understanding and, at times,
courage
but all in all it is a mass, a glo
have too much.