in passing, passyunk, once a footpath, coughs a card: brick of
squabs. soul that squabbles, flaps, flop. the run-over pigeons
make me the streets. i live it the fuck up. tuesday: who it is,
from birth, ignitions. coffee, coffee, christ, the future—women
and their worry, and my worry. in what town does what is
got a shot against should? i wanna go there—baby take me
please. if bliss, then bills—turn the faucet either way nickels
for everybody, though any love’s a skiff in her loss i latched
onto, long ago. i make myself useful, not because i like to.
i like to fuck until total exhaustion. til eyes've left. owls of
dirt, the stared at dusk. an opening for breakfast: a you, a
wind, a waiting to blow those robins out of the tree.