The Poet Realizes Almost Too Late that his Advice is Not Wanted
or, The First Three Stanzas
Your heart strings your heartstrings all up in your living-tomb
and last week will last. We could stay. (We should give him room.)
Your organs will begin to rot inside
your skin, you butterfly in progress. Bide
your time for years until you are a corpse,
a living Buddha. Dead. Forgotten. Here,
you see that you’re not getting any where.
I have a poem in my chest tonight.
I know you. You won’t act your best tonight.
We’re broke and we’re broken; we’re blacklight and virgin vein.
Dim lights, pills, your light spills like mist and a purging rain.
You’re shaking like a leaf, you tremble like
a trigger finger, drink pressed like a mic
against your lips, you’re always in a kiss,
you frog, you scorpion. You shouldn’t know
how many people you’re in love with, though.
I have a poem in my throat tonight
and you will let me have your coat tonight.
I meet her and meet her high standards or what-have-you
and so far I’m so far away from you. Not a clue.
And she’s not evil, no-one is, but still.
But still. But still, you flee to your Brazil
committing crimes just to get in, but you,
you kicked chihuahua, don’t belong in hell
or heaven, you belong right here. We tell
ourselves we’re poems, but you cannot fit
a sonnet in a koan, but still: you suck
the marrow out of life itself to fuck
your spine up, crush your bones. And if you let
it go, this poem in between my teeth,
I’ll teach you how to breathe, I’ll stand beneath
and catch you, should you fall, this ending you
can’t help. For we take turns, my friends and I
to be the one to say: today, don’t die.
I have a poem on my tongue tonight
which I have swallowed. I have sung tonight.
From the hidden archives. Offered up today as a prayer that I won’t have to write another one of these.