poem written in the middle of the night in the middle of the life

                

oh trysting Wystan go home,

i'm not a puerile chair.

it's snowing.

look. it's a balla painting
in my window
at 3:41. a.m.

the sky walks

light on its leash.

i'm alone.

philip says

quo vadis?

to my cat

every time

Dru pads out

of the room

to go eat more.

philip reading

over my shoulder

says pronouns

start all the best

wars. I think

he's lonely. I always look

where light falls

like a chump.

the illustrious dead

date too much

sayeth D.P.W.

eating a candy bar.

licking his fingers

he disappears.

once he pushed hart crane

through my body

on a lark. terrible.

he said poems here

are the baseball games

of the Afterlife.

he said Gertie Stein

makes a terrible umpire...

she still thinks

language is a hockey game.


and i WILL punch a man

he said.


or a bunker...