I awakened to dryness and the fern
the potted plants yellow as corn;
my woman was gone
and the empty bottles like bled co
surrounded me with their uselessne

I have lain in bed all day
but I have written one poem
and I am up now
looking out the window
and like a novelist might say

in the hospitals and jails
it’s the worst
in madhouses
it’s the worst
in penthouses

here I am
in the ground
my mouth
open
and

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

the goldfish sing all night with g
and the whores go down with the st
the whores go down with the stars
I’m sorry, sir, we close at 4:30,
besides yr mother’s neck is dirty,

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.

I sit here on the 2nd floor
hunched over in yellow
pajamas
still pretending to be
a writer.

we are always asked
to understand the other person’s
viewpoint
no matter how
out—dated

some say we should keep personal r
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some r
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don’t keep