I want to write
ENOUGH POEMS
so that when I die
all the shit will be out of me, I mean the guff, the nonsense,
the turds yes, ah I mean —that I have expressed enough
ENOUGH you see to
free me.

we have done this to ourselves, we
deserve this
we are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting
it is as if the sun were a mind that has
given up on us.

I havent slept
for 3 nights
or 3 days
and my eyes are more
red than white;
I laugh in the
mirror,
and I have been
listening to the clock
tick
and the gas
of my heater
smells
a hot thick
heavy
smell, run
through with the sounds
of cars,
cars strung up
like ornaments
in my head, but
I have read
the classics
and on my couch
sleeps a wine-soaked
whore
who for the first
time
has heard
Beethoven`s 9th,
and bored,
has fallen asleep,
politely
listening.

just think, daddy, she said,
with your brains
you might be the first man
to copulate
on the moon

life on paper is so much more
pleasurable:
there are no bombs or flies or
landlords or starving
cats,

18 cars full of men thinking of
what could have been-
about the one who
got away and
it was about sunset and
heavy traffic and heavy
life