where I lift off

Every morning he wakes up

and forgets the names He gargles 

with two aches and two oh's

to burn out the lumps down

in the mouth

A spicy brew and a glowing tulip

The eves no longer warm and inviting--

he drops

"words are not a convenience, but a liability. he sits, watching, waiting. waiting for Ides to come out of the trees. is it better to smoke them out or bait them? [capture them, chained in a cage]-- he waits. 'this is not a poem, you see, but a mingling. one must work the room.' i strive to increase my mass. gravity is what i need. the poems then will come to me in threes, nines, hundreds, orbiting around my gummy soles. and i will pluck them, my buds, from the thick dirty air. downwind from the garbage can--a shitty breeze. i peruse great works and strive for perfection, or greatness at least. words are a liability, and i suppose i've been sowing some heavy seeds with my thick needles to say something severe or not much at all. collecting thoughts into cobbles, i pave these white roads in sloppy black ink. look up, she's gone--they always get a way."

Those days, I seldom capitalized on Verse
but all things change
Black into white, East into West (maybe)
Those songs will coalesce
into greater Works--
Blocks into lines
Those days, I rode with no brakes
Tumbling
On Waverly ST, actually, we foamed at the mouth
and later on, dozed
Young and Fat
This day, quietly
we hang
and drop