I push myself to the lonely extreme,
Where you—and you—and you—are a dream,
Where every councilor and flying cousin are known
By my poetry alone.
Where every drink and dream contains a pill
Of my extremist will.
Where I go down to the pit of hell—
But one more cigarette will make me well.
They say I shouldn’t rhyme so much; it’s not sincere.
But music kisses plain speech; if trumpet rhymed with fear,
You would find some interest eventually.
Define poetry? A purity of wait-and-see.
Hope is despair that’s free,
Freedom: despair that hopes.
You’re an idiot if you assume others are dopes.
Everyone has imagination. Once, a poem said “kill”
And one died for the rest of the day
Not certain if it was real or play,
And the authorities granted she was frightened to death
By a word whispered by a poet’s breath.
How easily poetry can fill
The vanities with vanity.
Modernity is Dante on the window sill.
Did you read my poem at all?
Did you read my poem and fall?
That’s not what I meant at all.
Not life. Not agony. Not at all.
Breathing life into the whole street
I walk and look and obey my fate.
I focus my mind like a laser beam.
I watch sports for a minute. For the rest of the day I dream.
Comparison, the better and the worse,
Is what human life is made of, of course.
Every second, you compare top-shelf.
My smile wasn’t perfect. So I hid myself.