hearing
or seeing or speaking no evil
at
the bar
across
the street
from
Albany Med
long
enough
to
stay immature
and
outside myself
nursing
a drink
in
a pinwheel fantasy dream
with
timely perusals
I
unzip the clock seams
and
keep repeating
tomorrow
and tomorrow
what do you know of today
when
will I be first in line
I
can’t decide whether
this
is all a cruel joke
or
a vicious lie
why
does Mr. TV
tell
me to repent
for
what he sell me
as
necessary and bent
by
the screaming vengeance
of
capitalism’s saviors sent
so
that by time I age
I
will know so very well
all
the names that
I
am so willing to forget
on
my way to hell
my
daily mantra
is
taking shit
and crying mirrors
Edward,
I say
do
you see why
do
you see why
do
you see why
no
can know
if
you are righteous
because
someone
just
willing enough
is
not enough
in
this ritual
that
arrests
development
ruptures immature
outside one's self
anything
to drink
I
ask out loud
while
I think inside
do
her eyes seek
the
pleasure like mine
right
now the alcohol
is
grooming my motivations
my
inhibitions are slipping
past
gravity’s fingers
and
into the dream
coming
back in the tides
a
fantasy lover’s message
coming in clearly
behind
closed doors
to market what runs
cities and nations
and fumes their razed walls
and raises handfuls of citations
you get from being in places
like Pamplona
bleeding out from
re-opened
wounds
just reciting another language
just fighting yourself
for hiding
out
in
the alcoves
in
the bandages
in
appendages
in
the diapers
catching
the shit
falling
out of you
as
strangers pass time
as
they might
in
hospital hallways
and
bustling street corners
giving
no pretense
as
they fingerprint
their
eyes
onto
your soul
on
the way
into
your mind
I
thirst for what’s beneath
her
guile and charm
with
her arm on mine
guiding
me past
the
busy chatter
at
the stool counter
where
every style
of
posture men
might wear
when
being
on pussy alert
comes
to call me
to
bear arms
I
think of something
to
say to myself
under
this smile
pausing to burn
out my eyes
man,
these Florence Nightingales
are
especially fine
when
they want
to
save some
of
life’s stories
for
themselves
to bind me
ink to page
like
the one
being
written
while
I rage
and am bitten
by the coffee skin
and
doe eyes
she walked through
slowing down
in
front of me
no more
than
twenty
minutes ago
and says
she
likes my goatee
do
you want to go to
your
place or mine
and
now that I do
she says again
looking into my eyes
I am worth remembering
and knowing why
you were so willing
while you smiled
so bright and blind
to get inside
this
ride
this
fire
this surrender
this sweet
to please
this woman
with an ease
in her voice
saying may I
be
your baby
tonight
EJR
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