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

shot in the eye
shot in the brain
shot in the ass
shot like a flower in the dance
amazing how death wins hands down

he lives in a house with a swimmin
and says the job is
killing him.
he is 27. I am 44. I can’t seem t
get rid of

they found him walking along the f
all red in
front
he had taken a rusty tin can
and cut off his sexual

some dogs who sleep At night
must dream of bones
and I remember your bones
in flesh
and best

I see you drinking at a fountain w
blue hands, no, your hands are not
they are small, and the fountain i
where you wrote me that last lette
I answered and never heard from yo

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.

Sunday, I am eating a
grapefruit, church is over at the
Orthadox to the
west.
she is dark

I am a panther shut up and bellowi
cement walls, and I am angry at bl
evenings without ventilation
and I am angry with you, and it wi
like a rose

once
we were young
at this
machine. . .
drinking