there’s a bluebird in my heart tha
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not goi
to let anybody see

I can’t have it
and you can’t have it
and we won’t
get it
so don’t bet on it

when you’re young
a pair of
female
high-heeled shoes
just sitting

she was hot, she was so hot
I didn’t want anybody else to have
and if I didn’t get home on time
she’d be gone, and I couldn’t bear
I’d go mad. . .

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

I awaken about noon and go out to
in my old torn bathrobe.
I’m hung over
hair down in my eyes
barefoot

I can remember starving in a
small room in a strange city
shades pulled down, listening to
classical music
I was young I was so young it hur

this head like a saucer
decorated with everything
as lip to lip we hang
in mechanical joy;
my hands blaze with arias

The flies are angry bits of life;
why are they so angry?
it seems they want more,
it seems almost as if they
are angry

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