Roses are dead

Violets are, too

If I'm schizophrenic
how can I know I ain't you?


The birds are rioting out of the trees

Mobbing down to the ground

Raping the seed from the grass


I can't write like Bukowski

Damn his eyes
(I can only look into them)


I can't write like Beefheart

Christ- her thighs
(If only I could see them)


And The Rhymers

The crimin' rhymin'
ruin of verses
from their perfectly precious pieces



Birds- wing us from this perch

Claw my face into a
shredded nest

Pluck these eyes
(that only offend me)
and plop eggs into their socket holes


Thus and then
this empty skull that has shat what is me
will,
finally,
be of some true use to The Word