Back Awake

Roberta had her breast sealed.
She did not watch the floor turn black.

Donny was filmed at peace, 3 feet.
Nowhere, Roberta grinned, gigantic.

Only one Roberta can watch me.
The stained, rubber freedom off her chest.

She can't listen to how it is normal and boring,
and her nipples, they can tell you everything.

But no, it is healed.
She hid it from lovers, for an instant.

To Wendy, Burger Queen

When it snows, where
will I go?  Will I sit
still in the great, white
stillness? Will I eat
a hamburger while
facing a mirror?
These are foolish
thoughts, but still
not without reason,
like a hamburger wrapper
blowing with the season.
I would never write
the word "hamburger"
without you.

No Exit

Swans are boring, but they exist. 

In Kensington Gardens, in Nashville, 

and in children's stories, all beauty

and stagnant dead ends. When they

spread their great white wings, though, 

it's like someone cut the sky in half. 

You won't believe it, how much

even boring can do.  If you blink

you'll miss it, and then all you'll 

find is a beak, two ringed orange legs

and clawed, webby feet. One sky in

one piece, no rain or sun, only night

turning surely to evening. Nothing 

to yawn at, if you can live it. 

Ridiculous as it waddles, graceful

as it drinks. Knowing only this--

All of us are boring, 

all of us exist.

White People

Better to be wrong
than to be airtight in virtue.

If virtue cannot breathe, it
dies, just like me.

Someone says it's white,
the pure color, but

also the color of surrender.
You can see it if

You let it all in,
and wave the only

flag you were given.
Glory be, we live!

We breathe with virtue
and with bright, white vice!

Prepare for war. Truce. I give in.

Yet Another One from the Chelsea Hotel

Here it is, the last one
I'll write tonight.
There are only
so many love letters
someone can write in a day.
So it is-- My love
is tired and filthy and
thinks it might
have head lice.
Piss cups and broken toys.
"Yeah, this is my kind of
place." I dragged over
an old armchair. I poured
some of my Nescafe over it.
He awoke and drank the rest.
I marveled at the art
of cigarette burns.
My love, my love,
we are free.
My love, won't you
please take a shower?

Claudio, Forever, In Heaven

Poetry is not mortal,
He said. Gregory in 1971.
It knows the feel of your face
even before you touch it.
And it feels the face of your
knowledge, too. Pamela,
next door, 1972.
1975, Robert has a Polaroid
camera. It tells him
secrets in 60 seconds.
To a secret, 60 seconds
doesn't top off a minute.
And that (Angie Lee Kay,
1978) is the secret to poetry.
Our poems are in our bodies,
we know this with our eyes
closed. We know this without
thinking. Regina and Albert,
1977, 1977. Transvestite
siamese man and woman,
1977. We are still here,
all of us. We are young,
look, and we are all still
ready yet to walk from
real life into a poem.
California is the reason
we stay awake at night,
knowing that the least blink
powers it. Claudio, forever,
in heaven.

haiku, 8:27 am

hair smells soft, like sleep
like waking sweetly, gently
without the alarm