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Image for the poem desire is a lonely streetcar

desire is a lonely streetcar



bolt the exit & seal the windows. stuff towels in the crack
under the kitchen door like Sylvia did when love had
destroyed her enough. then turn on the gas stove & fill
the air with the entrancing odor of oblivion.

if you live like a poet, you must die like a poet.

…before I get carried away, I drown my nobility in old
whiskey. there is always a bottle hidden among the dusty
novels in the oaken bookcase.

when I get very drunk, I’ll waste my last quarter on a
streetcar named desire. it goes nowhere, it goes slowly,
then it brings me back here.

back to where I’m surrounded by the trinkets of my existence:
intemperate wishes, broken dreams; & poems, so many
poems.  I held love in my hands like a small bird, held it too
tightly, & crushed it to dust.

is it passion that draws us out of our morose cubicles & into
the wilderness, hunting with a sexual hunger, for a lover?
for lovers? how many of you have I spent brief moments with,
can you still feel my kiss on your lips? are your cheeks wet
with my tears?

Plath, in her ensuing dementia, reasoned that: ‘I think I made
you up inside my head.’ but I have no regret that you are there
somewhere; somewhere you are real. my journey to you is so
long & I can’t find my way.

the woman I sleep with is named Desiree…



Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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