Yr skin is dangerous and sacred, so breathe carefully, kid.
Hey, man, I am
talking to your listening part.
I’m talking to the poet
who breathes in your heart.
When are you going to stop
faking a start?
You’ve matured yourself
in some ways, sure.
You wrote a poem earlier today,
and last night, and quite a lot relatively.
But you’ve been masturbating yr spirit out of you
in the room of regularity, been honing some disciplined individuality (which, guess what, has no life,
and I’m not just talking about the sperm on the wad of toilet paper floating with the rest of Philadelphia’s un-loved, un-wanted shit).
You are a survivalist.
You had to be, you suicidal Steppenwolf,
you invaluable child, you dwarf star.
You’re also a closet-case opportunist which is why you latch so smoothly and desperately onto the kingpin of justified suicidals,
Socrates. You man. You serious, principled man, you you
you wannabe father, you phony Jesus Christ, you devoted philosopher.
Yr no diegetic liver! Yr no self-aware leaf. Yr no sentient photon,
and life is no sunbeam, and yr time is no wave of light
and yr death is no one else’s heat.
Except it – you and life and death
and the rest- is
it is it
is this is
it is this
is
happening. Now
I’ve wasted more time than I’ve not wasted,
which was a stupid decision, but we know what we do with those.
We regret them.
I can change if I simply rearrange
everything in my mind. It’s not hard.
It’s impossible. What I do is the impossible trick,
what I’m going to do before your very eyes.
I’m gonna show you something, I’m gonna take a system,
a familiar everything, language, sound and vision, the venue through which
exist all my friends and all your favorite meanings,
and I’m gonna dance with it, seduce it with the song that shoots out of my loving part,
I’m gonna make love with the poet in your heart, impregnate her,
I’m gonna make you a father, son.
What you feel now is just the baby kicking inside you,
your heart thumping. A moment.
And another.