poetic trash

I drive the long way home
like a ghost
lingering without a place to be

Reading Plath reminds me of why
I wanted to die
She reminds me of those endless nights
of screaming at the sky
running dry on gasoline and life
She is my drunken steering wheel
and that grotesque appeal
to drive and dive into a new light of DieNow, Die!

I know what’s next

Humanity will not believe that I am God
and I am you, too
no God ever knew what to do, anyhow

Do you know what to do?

Bukowski reminds me of why I am an alcoholic
not vindictive       but addicted
and lawless          A perverted old man
but ball-less
and feminine       fucked-up from when I began
Dancing in bars and jumping out of cars,
disgraced but still getting laid
despite cigarette breath and acne scars

And then Whitman teaches the Walt[z] of
Earth:               a dance with no faults
Spring and her windy days
my bluebonnet maze of hope and yellow Falls
All the people call
to the Summer and Winter boxed in walls

I can never stand to read Keats again
or I won’t ever eat again
Endlessness never lasts or listens

Neruda makes me feel lovely in the after-
noon, but the man is as full-of-shit as I am
in the nightly bedroom,
displaying red roses like an S.O.S. by the window
while you undress and I digress
into single dimensions and monosyllables

Bob Dylan is my poetic Savior;
I want to sell my soul like he did
I want all the kids to dig my funky behavior
so the world can feel the Love of our labors,
the galactic drug of human Nature,
the only taste a tongue can savor

I’m gayer than Ginsberg
and queer as Dickinson,
Sappho made me Sapphic
and Frida said I was didactic
like a poet of Aphra Behn or the Bible’s sin

E.E. Cummings taught me that space       was abrasive
as you needed it to be, paragraphs and punctuation and
powerfully political effacement
plague the people with sacred placement
that they can’t understand
slipping like pity unknowingly from our hands

Humanity will not believe that I am God,
and I have travelled
into the wormholes of past and future rot

The Poets believe that they are me,
as I begin to unravel
into you and you and you –
And we are God all over again,
but no God ever knew what to do

Do you know what to do?

Are you listening?
Can you see?
Could you tell me a story
that exists without a plot?

You are God and I am you,
so the Poets have sought
to give the Gods a clue


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