storm on A st.

Winter is gone and I mean me
I learned not to write of it,
askt instead for speech -- which is power

where it will be,

at the hearing on the 17th,
behind the wood and the face of
old whites, they are pink and white, powerful, as were taught

Mr. Woody, he was a large pink man who sold pretzels for 25 cents each
and said never to lean your head back when you had a nosebleed
because you will choke

I've never had a nosebleed, ever.
Absoposilutely. Sure.

Mr. Woody had a paper cut out of Woody Woodpecker on his office door.
One day I heard he had died.
Pretzels tasted of blood,
children dusted the sidewalks with salt,
blood, itself, salty.
I was salty, even.
Other kids were.
Other kids I knew, who died.

An old man w/ a large tricycle rode us kids up and down the block in his giant basket.
At the end of the block were Cambodians. Rathey and his brother who had all the Zords.
At the other end, Christian, who only pretended to be my friend.

My cousin and I staring
at five or more black kids
who stood on our front lawn.
I don't remember what happened after.
I suppose they finally moved.

One of the only white kids on the block askt for sugar and wrote 'THANKS' w/ it on our front steps.
My mother told me that in the morning, grandpa was sweeping all the ants away.

the bird that eats the bug

kiss early in the pale morning
kiss is as early as they come
in the night
         swept

thick lunch here,
mobile remnants,
the five red bites on my leg,
outward to the slant of the swampland
a suffocating cloud from this spawn
where I swam in
          last summer

honey snarls at me as I hook her to the lead
she growls, thinking she is playing
                  but too rough

underneath the maroon jacket, lines of her ruff play
yellow dirt
compliments
blue shirt

In May
the summer wind
gently brushes Po Chu's hair

half hour

symmetrical brackfuss

oak lure the humming dog

kicking whelps, the three-time thirst

when we had arrived once again

here in this horrid house of dust

which beb sweats to make livable

we filled the bowls w/ water

and a nylon bone that is uncrackable

tug-a-rope that is unbreakable

S-P-C-A, Delaware county, unreportable

mischief and rattling neglect

The drive to the Philadelphia building
I had timed it at an even half hour

Juniper and coffee fronts

Fujianese master barber

(no to gel

and the girl's soapy dialect

(the color purple, strong fingers

I tip her two less than the master

who had instantaneously returned behind his newspaper

The woman who cried once in front of me

due to money issues from a landlady

she gives me change

I step out, changed

slip on my hat and cig

sidestep the steaming urine
the man w/ a dragon tattoo

and an old man inspecting

the bottom of their door
once again a half hour over

w/ no one to give it to

see translation

1

Today is a rainy day and weeks look week. 

Lost umbrella. 

People are pretty 

and praised for her umbrella. 

If one goes to slap the yoke. 

I am my own things 

the body magnet, 

this by itself for me not to lose

more than just stuck? Done, 

              I hate the rain,

too awful to not 

(also known as positive as long idiots don't) 

walking in the rain to fall on some 

front where

              Goengeumi heard.

Never heard a gunshot, 

but actually makes sense,

so the road completely, 

having hit the deck in the bars bars-toed kid 

car tires were going through

Umbrella 

head strap hairpin

socks buy buy buy

more stuff away, leaving

a world where rain

is a dimension

2

In the last 12 hours, 

small to larger space of the universe

at only 11 years of night

broken water heater,

could it be that 2012 has to return to basics

back to d original life?

tenderness and violence

2 days in a row 

to receive

     "lightning to the teacher of love letters

big of me

small as I yam, it is hard for my eyes to linger on any sentence for too long
therefore it is hard to study the TSS packet that was mailed to me
therefore it is hard to embrace fully my pal, who is best
therefore hard, initially, to gain your trust
hard initially, to gain your love
hard initially, to slink my way

simple though, to stay hard
simple though, to keep your love
simple though, to keep your trust
simple though, to keep my way,
keep the lowest as the Chinese say,
and all others who have lived on this very earth
simple though to invite your embrace and to hold it, singularly, as in each night,
that is best, not to wear one out, for someone such as small

as in what is taking for the big is what I might call gaining for the small
all in all not the same things, I do not take!
(once this girl who was smaller than me
put her two fingers together as a measurement
the nerve of her, later, I realized, as she was off in the large world
although smaller continents, to feel big
that she wasn't,
that she was minute,
and hardly significant

as I remember I was on a train to Manhattan (right, of all places, Manhattan
w/ a friend of a friend, she had bigger expectations of me
and what am I to do now, you, take the next stop and go back,
back to my small city

as I walked one laggy pace
I opened up my book in this coffee space
and read to myself and wrote letters, not poems, that I did once w/ my small friend
who drove a large car and I kept it folded in my breast pocket
it was, at the time, for me,

        a big poem
        about a small girl
        and our big love

        on a long road
        under a big moon
        over a long time

        as I read, it seemed
        so big of me then

california

Even at hundreds of miles and thousands of feet,
I'm doing the same old
we got there and the girls had to loop around so many times
who has ever picked anyone up at an airport and not have to loop around

I, with my grey shawl sweater that I have no damn idea where it is anymore
looked critically at a palm tree
and shrugged and had my cigarette,
raised my eyebrows approvingly of the warmth of the air

and then we drove,
   
              and that was most of it,

I would like to say I fell in love w/ the highway,
or the lonely taco truck, or the curious museum,
but I remember smoking up often

and making one girl angry and the rest of the trip
blurred like the sandy recesses under my feet into the water
The sun I watched sink beneath the horizon clearly for the first time

and the Pacific was cold,

                       like the other ocean I've been to

Songs (cont.)

5

The secret now, that I only discovered while talking
(but no one can ever call it as such
to bee, is not of the drink that this large, stomping poet
slams against the corner of the kitchen table,
(the stew brewing I toss the mess all in it
and while it goes I discovered then
of the changes in rhythm, where some sap on the internet
claimed he had none, the pacing here
from his breath, the lines, the sd syllables
arises from yrs of experience and having had read that poem
many times over
(the tomatoes now falling over themselves
W/ a tums I write this in my own stench
but alas, maybe I had discovered, maybe not so much a secret
as it is the pepper in my stomach
             
                                           I do most of my reading and
                                           composition-by-can
                                           in my favorite place


6

My friend of whom I am most proud
went ahead as a passenger to one of the Forts, there
where they make you sign a document
that proves your allegiance to your country
as well, makes you into a man because, certainly,
you were not one before,                            
       couldn't've

There in the lobby were many books of military history that no one must've picked up
and actually read! for godsakes, and a young man, younger than my friend and I,
who was quite nervous, you see, eager though, electrifying perhaps in his levels,
        This is hard to know

and that he did not know how to survive, the first rule: don't drink the sea water,
but this
            he did not even know!   That he swore, even, that the tropical waters of Puerto Rico
and elsewhere in the Virgin Islands, the archipelago, were safe to drink from

sure,
be all you can be,
but, gee

my friend he wanted to be in Intelligence
but they wanted him to start off in infantry,
as it was serving your country    either way
that it was being a patriot,
that it was, much like here in the inside world,
(that battle that is outside
you would work your way up the ranks

but it didn't take, him, no, my friend, of whom I am most proud
it took another recruiter, it took
someone from Intelligence
(that they say, they brought in,
now, this man said
if my friend wanted to get
into diplomacy
that this was the
  way                    
                   this later he found out, wasn't true, from a diplomat friend of the family
                                  this he had gotten sick of their accusations, this place, a Fort
                                  where the linoleum had gotten suddenly rough, the going; tough

                                  as nails as the heads of these men
                                  as pristine as the pages of history
                                  as sickening as the actions in articles
                                  he got the hell out of there, and we had discussed this later on,
                                  w/ beb, on 11th & Wash,  over pho


7


I always picture him in a diadem,
I, golden

my mother, always focused on my vigor
that I eat quickly while the food was hot,
that I be awake at all times even during slumber
so as not to miss one iota of experience that could
take me out of here, this place
somehow these experiences they get built up
almost as calcium

I was raised on the measure of a glass
my father, he, just about near insane at points, in the old warm-white kitchen
back on A & E. Louden, stuffed several tomatoes in a blender and made me drink
and it had this sanguine, bubbly texture that made me gag
it was nothing like V8, man,
nothing like it

still I made the attempt and promptly vomited into the sink,
almost proud, like "see, this is what we both should've known would happen
and that I, even as a small child, was brave enough to vomit just to teach you a lesson
                                                        brave enough to eat it down

sweep

the biological processes of myself, daily, tidal
I am continuing on the same circadian rhythm
stuffing myself fat at three, in the midst of bad company,

       sleepless,
in the cover of dawn, take my head into the folds
slap the brim and be done with harsh fluorescents

over me, eucaboard, stringy dust of canvasses
the awful anticipation of the stairwell door slam!
the frame as I jump up from my deserved nap

on Sundays, still make a habit of it, on Mondays,
the same, no differentiating w/o the window peak
take your watch and drop it, persist, even in the absence of cues
go to the edge of the season leave it by my low body

at twenty-one, melatonin secretes
at two, now, the deepest sleep

Songs

1

I've got all my money with me here,
all the bottom, this shell I had found in the heat and wings of,
the nauseating drunken heat of the Jersey bay, moreover,
young and plump, I, not yet as distressed that you can tell it to me by the photographs of my eyes
and the skin of my knees and thighs

yet time strikes as well all too soon
some things are out of place, not quite ripe, take to the protocol
she turns my red face on Canal
and then skips to the nearest XO joint   her hasty decision
watching my feet at the floor of the bus
feeling cold and not being able to do a thing

                                   it is all a difference, even the cheek that held her on the slope of the grass
                                   which goes now the other way,
                                   slopes even the other way,
                                   holds another,
there was a large crowd there one oddly warm fall
I scanned the expressions of the runners and mothers
that someone might've drowned even
they had a specialist brought out here to the Schuylkill
but nothing

I was lonely and drunk one morning after work and I had said all the nothings I could to win her

cool
suburban
northern night
sporting
familial
annual
on the carpet,
both bathrooms,
next to the cooler

my mother and father leaving me there, (upon my insistence
my sister, (so far off elsewhere she could not have existed,
I have stayed behind and shrunk, almost, (all I have are nerves now, raw

I lay exposed for the place
here, the city     here, this!

my head stems upward from a slight spell that dizzies me, is timeful,
takes me out of it, out by the southern sky where the glare of the city is a cover
and a quadrant of stars hold themselves barely together
a string of cosmos   where is this? that I am here?
                              full of food, thriving? partners w/ someone? in question?
                              in someone's love as well as contempt?
                              where are these children being hushed off to?
                              when will these matters reveal themselves, broaden themselves, lay flat?
                              I call them monsters if I may, I was planning on which door to leave from
                              Out in my fittest form upon the road where my flowers are heavy

too much so to break a wrist for a gal
yet Love, and so forth, etc., for a pal,
                                                        I'd
                           
                           
2

So it was another,
she had told me over the phone
that these events did not correlate
I was in my yard snuffing out my high flame,
considered it a moment,
and let it rest


3

Heaven shook everyone out


4

I was on a bus
when I was that young I had no head for names of places
I had two names for myself then, still, now,
hers was Adrienne

jacqueline

             I know of her by the hat shop there, it came into view once

by the timing of my pace, 

the foamy cider, warm in my hands of paper

in the corner of the narrow space

there, I saw her

again, back at the five-foot desk which I had two yrs behind

in the night slumping over, often forgetting

that this was work, to be paid,

to be granted yet another two

weeks

pain in my sleep, I woke

the bottom of my tail-bone rubbed smooth

almost a dromedary

frothing in the mornings

for a shared smoke

alas I was empty,

but at it again, the hat shop on pine from where I ran into her

I was driving up 5th into the northern slums

where she would've preferred to have walked

"Are you crazy

the many times I 

honestly considered this

the vicious brother, a doctor, o, he was vicious
truth if there were any
from her story, walking in the home of
the English that she found solace,
like a mage she stood,
diminutive w/ her TARDIS

we were muted in the diner with our Polish or Czech waitress,
that I'll never distinguish   I had the buttermilk there

tears    She would walk through Knightsbridge w/ her bags
that, I figured
was the name
 and how large she was in this city
  and offering up herself in autumn
   that which is her element

That horrid north Philly house, that I left her there,
w/ her bags from which she fled promptly the next dawn,
found herself back in one of the western burgs

                               her father,
                               all she had left,

me, who drove past full one morning after breakfast  
watching her take in the city

in her eyes,
I saw all of this

cornwall-on-hudson

I took the last shot and got the hell out of there
some dive in the middle of the wooded road,
two girls, they saved me from the Irish bachelors
who knew these lands
better from fire
rapid up rungs

proper driving etiquette
require that one promptly
switches off their fog lights
when approaching
another vehicle,
                             
                               we blinked through
                               the still black
                               of thruway 87
                               to, finally, the immense waters
                               of the east off my cuff

                               sharp fog-wind in my throat
                               at the lip of the Shore
                               to Pollepel Island
                               where legendary hounds
                               guard the ruined
                                         castle

to the swimmers in the bay,
I squint toward the highlands and return
my cautionary pace through the geese-shit
the field and from it, one long strip of gravel that summed up
to a ghostly gazebo laden w/ beer cans and
other discards

of the pink locals
of the old storm kings,
of the old Ketchams

Rolling towards Black Rock
which has since flooded a great deal,
the old men catch
fish & flies
have meetings

I, launching a ball high into the air
for a child to chase after, his mother,
who adored me, laughs through her cigarette and claps

Cornwall & Grandview Ave becomes a finger
that points toward the Hudson, and over
the docked boats, the blue-brown waters
toward Breakneck Rd      

Pat, standing always close to me,
once again, insisted that I take the trouble
to visit West Point for a tour

wsq

6.02 acres
Walnut to Locust
6th to 7th Sts.

we need only heaven & earth as he littered
the grass w/ an empty soft pack
said there, the glory area curling w/ the left shot jaw, combing
the lazy serpentine paths--the southeast square,
Potter's Field, they called it
I lay w/ my knees up facing the Sarcophagus
in cold darkness the fires make good fun, for us
for many, many men, same darkness that was none

brave

if there was a word, syllable--

brave

brave the label; 

it is not enough to just recount the images and earshots of the daily being!

this anthology rests on my chest as a heatsink

and at night the whiskey

the moisture of my body

keeps me from becoming the living flame

it is not enough to tell of pink men and the treasures that women sit on,

"I was mimicking the man next to me today except he had ice in his coffee."

"I was smoking but his was 100mm long."

People tell me of Bukowski so often that I'm beginning to think he is the only writer.

in the kit, 

not every tool 

should be blunt

gddamn williams

gddamn williams
big oily splotch here, that took the will from your name

leaving only CAR   S

Karen J Mueller, from Chi Omega House
10 S. College, your copy of Spring & All

I have thoroughly studied your annotations
underlinings w/ pencil, half brackets

are you now possessed of a knowledge, that which you know
is not apparent to others, that which turns the lives of others?

have you now escaped, truly escaped, in perfection,

in excellence, in technical excellence?

are you completed? revealed yourself the oneness of experience?

to others, the poetry which has the purpose of poetry put into it?

The wheel of rock & burning hydrogen in stasis
a Mayan carved this image, a capped man sells this passage

To me in mid-town Manhattan. I take it off his hands to read

that THE WORLD IS NEW       once more

mortise & tenon

I look back to the variations of my work and know that it is shit

out there across the second floor where there is none,
a veiled reflection of nature, if it has a carpenter
what attracts me, first, is this table
a Dutchman in there, made of recycled boat,
                                                                   an old house,
a proportioned foot,
held in place further down the line by a wooden wedge
a beautiful trestle table that surprises me

Pine with knicks & dings, if not properly cared for
I suppose the most formidable task
is to care for such soft wood,

narrow                 yet very long,
ten people sitting comfortably
taking sketches into their hearts

by way of the ear to the head
small scraps, the edges of the assembled soul,
three pieces, a foot, bracing my vertical member

mortise & tenon, white slopes
embarrassed by black rain
a young feather holding itself against the faded fence
turns my attention and finishes the inside of me

If you're feeling it, in Forest Hills

If you're feeling it, in Forest Hills
many men here, handsome, as some say next to ryes
on thick industrial stools, the rounded shapes of picks,
from Mt. Airy.

I had come under the impression that only my presence, see, from my pal,
of many flightless yrs, was needed.

Here, next door to the cold slope of the river, do the young bucks clamor
the din of gentrification, some say, betterment,
or say, here come less Irish, the transplants here in my home city
home city of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

I was on Girard & Palmer between the two dark halves, and asked this man,
also dark, ethnic, from Queens, Forest Hills, for a cigarette
both of us lost to some degree,
he, waiting for his girl
I, waiting for my own self to make my quiet way into the draft house,
nodding, a sustained smile, to the two girls,
and two angels from the mountains north-west of here.

She suggested to me that I include artwork w/ my writing
(she was so kind as to engage me momentarily, a distraction, much needed
from the love doves

at my side, between us was a pink man
I had mistaken from afar, a Reds uniform for a Phillies
and would go the rest of the evening never bringing up sports again,
just nodding

John from S Philly who had lived most of his life there, w/ his mother,
next to royal, and was in the computer programming business before it overtook him,
passed him by, didn't have a last name that rhymed
unlike mine,
                 and sidestepped telling me
                                                        "doesn't rhyme, it doesn't rhyme"

A kiss, it is now April.

The most playful of months,
who should for reasons unknown
to me, not smoke.

John had gotten into a bicycle
accident and was really going
to feel it in the morning.

Linden

off the right of the fork, if you hang left,
return to the road w/ kill that marks the passage north to Jersey and New York
but this is not about either of those cities

continuing further, w/ ample bike paths and the field w/ its majestic lights
hosts a multitude of sports during the spring and summer
from my rooftop, that my father built access to,
w/ my little assistance,

watch
the games that brings the vans in droves, in front of the drive
way, not mine, my father's,
and this field, adjacent to Dagwood's that I've yet to enter

the long wood   brown,
lacquered surface of the ancient bar,
and the questionable crabs, perhaps,
but only a few blocks down from my house,
from the field there, still king of the skyes here,
expanding ever higher
                                 oer the corners of roofs,
oer clouds into Jupiter and its icy moons

a chopper's roar which makes the acura scream too,
the dogs next door, and the cat that has claimed
my territory, hiding in the daytime amongst the large fronds
that return each summer,
the long narrow strip of earth where my father,
who had only the best intentions, wanted to place a gate,
and our wintry neighbor who refused because it was legally her land
but it was on our side of the fence
here,

deep sludge concrete
the immense
tow truck to tow
the cement truck,

me, young, then, palming a twenty into the driver's hands,
or was it my father?

eight giants w/ their shining helms
standing guard, casting their lights
oer the darkness of the Delaware

long in the chance of plenty

both pens disappointing
my last night of the hostel, arms covered in the green sisters and tape
slapping my warm boss's back, boss I called him always

outside on the curb of Bank st one last time having two cigarettes,
figuring the future   fighting again, out here, now, the grey spring

10th & Arch, where I was a boy w/ a bowl cut w/
my mother and sister and Babe the pig, and the uncle that my father dislikes
waiting,
            again the anxiety, for one thing certain--

getting my glasses tightened, the lab opens at nine and I've got to use the bathroom
so coffee is out of the question, for now, yet it is readily available on the corner.

Which perceptions will go into the toilet, directly and immediately   the manifesto
teaches me, and I absorb obediently
I look up at the red lights and the swaying trees where A1 used to be,

red sash
strong, dense
thigh muscles
of yesteryear

in the time of plenty
                                                             order,
                                                    in the time of comforts,
still now, continuing,                               mother,
o, mother up in the mornings
and back to the sink in the evenings.

Going hard nothing, piles wait for me at home,
mansion of byproducts of lazing about,
drawers, locked, full of my works,
the manuscript which is forever a manuscript,
cat which will never be mine

and I, softly
watching in the dusk when I approach,
mewing, will never be its master

black hair, police interceptor that creeps
up behind, scorching red of a pedestrian,
the churring and grinding of truck gears,
the impending siren which brings me out of it,
   
     back to Arch st, growing ever more real,
the emergency quickly approaches, again, a child   perhaps
man w/ cane

interview

look at the people, yo
we were on 10th & waverly drinking sour beer
& petals & sunflakes & dirt
from coffee cups that the girl once tried to charge me 50c
for   to which i gave her the ol 'nvm' and she gave in, and it up

reading old poems & notes out of the little fat book
until the owner of the house finally goes out for the day
and we hop the fuck off his stoop & apologize
only to sit right back down when he's gone

i was in cherry hill earlier that day interviewing for a job
john davis, who didn't create garfield, called me 'keen'
but only because he didn't know how to pronounce 'quyen'
i really didn't want the job anyway and somehow the conversation turned
to his girlfriend's hideous paintings on the wall of his office;

two football players' heads filling up the sky over the ben frank
as if gods, in full uniforms & helmets,
and the other, some black & white mess

the receptionist, who was 100% irish, she said,
asked what I did over the weekend   I went to a coupla bars in fishtown
for my pal's bday, the barcade for example, which I tried to describe to her
'so, you mean like a dave & buster's?'
'no, nothing like a dave & buster's.'

i'm from philadelphia, she said
o? where?
well, outside of philadelphia, she said
it was actually king of prussia   like a day's travel by horse to philadelphia

old txts

- "Where u at"

- Fran is
in the
park

- Texts Q
"wsq park"

- Q Monologue
"decipher" wsq
"west-south quad"
"I'm so smart"

- going to all
parks in abc
order

- ends w/
Q in pennypack
(has sword
in belt loop)

Mural Notes

mural depicts
scene of protest
camping signs of

'no prisons in ctown'
'better homes for ctown'
and
'homes not highways'

shows migrant railroad workers
3 people drinking tea,
ironing clothes
workers leaving farms
and pregnant wife
behind in china?

--school children
   flying kite,

large figure wringing
out wet cloth
which becomes
a river ->
a dirt road ->
        concrete pavement
        ->
        book of
        a student & his
        father:

Old Poem from Fat Notebook

I have a little fat notebook which I used for a variety of purposes. This poem was the first thing I wrote in it, about four years ago:



I'm prone to forgetting, if it was one last item to be thrown in the bag

paddle case, the only two notebooks anyone would ever need,

a Chinese pear and a banana got to be one of the most important
a license for the drive there and back.

So leaves are scrambling like a forgetful fool in front of the Temple
guards, though they have very nice manners
and will let you enter with a smile and a signature.

I enter halfway blind but handsome,
and sit next to the blurry profiles of women, eating yogurt and wearing sweatpants.

She doesn't know that she's being written about and the same goes for her yogurt.

I'm alive-tired and so goes my eyes saying "where are the looky glasses?"
Stop being so dramatic and let us watch your front!

you do need us, yes, but not to write down in my little fat book.

I let the n/right si/ong [love] on but am in need of a change of place.

The benches aren't thick enough for me, even with my narrow butt!
What is this flat plank here at the windows? Which blocks all potential suicide jumpers? 

or base ones?

The sky is still pink, the Escalade on the Girard exit is still flipped
on its side, I'll bet, and the cops are cold.

Third page already? I'm not that creative ...  my head itches.
Professor Altimore's door remains closed as if it is still break
and January hasn't started, and I'm not yet twenty-one.

The sky now pale--whatever. That stupid, fat Escalade is still rolled over on its heavy side.
Speak of the angel, Prof. Altimore just stepped out of hibernation,
I like our awkward small talk.

Would you like to see how two people, one, a sociologist (I guess)
and one student of the subject, engage in the art of small talk?
Surprisingly, the same as everyone else would engage it.

At last I get a comfortable break--I mean--chair!

I need ambiance to stay awake, and for the pen to awaken,
and not hang so droopy. This is where the poem gets to be long-winded

and wastes an extra break--I mean page. God, how distracted I must be!
My gusto has busted:
This isn't only a book of fat poems, but of fat doodles! ha!

[here, a doodle of a very wide pig]

the glasses

the glasses, the glasses! again the barbary
this sure one of mine lenses came off
or jumped with
me during aerodynamic
which shook me into immediate sobriety
this night we moved into the territory mob deep
taking trunk shots (amy spilling tully all over my american anthology
but was eager to mop it up

in the cold the stale sweat on my back the artificial
fog, the green piercing lasers
one of me, who was on hands and knees frantic
blindly grabbing feet for the feel of plastic ($600
I, now, in the gray northeast morning came to accept
the full meaning of the $5 stamp "hands and knees"

my beb, cold, without her sweater, consoled me with her warm body and mewing
I had fully removed myself from the pit, the stench, black red brick, the pit!
Swinging tires round 'bout the Delaware, we got out of there, to Broad St. Diner,
(she had convinced me within one block
of the hunger, the uneasiness that took up the space in my stomach,
Tiffy, our red waitress, beb, with a water, dave & amy, with pepsis

I, with my black tea
summing up the night,
w/ slices of pink tomato
while the others tried their luck.

fake poem

By the slightest movement of the pin in the air
I was travelling to a gorgeous mathematician
to chat over her kids, this time a third
columns of sleepless boys, by 9 o'clock already
between her thighs with a cry
making her slight sounds, inexhaustible patience
Let's see, said the woman
But I cannot.
Body tilted slightly forward,
I told you no. It's damp there.
They came
                     to bother us
Pleasure! I love to kiss you, but what?
I could not cry in the act.
Emptied myself by the phone that night, next
She takes her bath to ready herself
I spent on a bottle of wine
"You knew it all the time."
If I came, to explain, it would do no good
The graven image on his own back
Brief attention rising
gracefully the inevitable where I carry you
Inescapable motion of her breasts
I see your face litter the room.