45*21

for 4/21/10

Six months in and things get strange
I suppose, but what of the perfumed
The unconsumed death
What the grave beckons
That big fat black crow at this our disposed fate
that pecks out the rest of our eyes
& my gray mane lay like the snow melting on Easter
over a gravel path
O! and the Buddha's bus stop
Now I'm alone
Nothing is really wrong
Everything is strong poison
It will take me down
And when I fall it will be light
Taking out that cornice
Black night Kansas City at 15
I knew all the graves inside
And no love yet did I know
Not any LOVE, really
My spirit was but a bucket
The gold like pewter ore