Tuesday, November 10, 2009



O voice on the radio almost dying, O articulation
of that pain, O hateful name, O anonymous schlub
I'd love to staple to something high up
there, where the angels and the weather dither,
O shame I once subscribed to when
I was a kid who feared a lot more than I fear now,
O petunia, O poodle, O wise master,
O supplicant drowning in the gutter,
what was I thinking when I thought of nothing,
only of all the days I'd fretted
at algebraic failures, the tires bleeding air
and the long walk, then, cursing
whatever was in sight, O gas station,
you too can go hang, you too can swing in the lambent
breeze, see if I care, see if I come
too late, weeping, with all my strength
in my arms and plans to save you
and two or three bus tickets, however many
I could afford, see that I am
every atom made of anguish,
see that I came a long way, see that hate
sent me out when the night
was everything, see that soon
it failed to ignite, O moon, O sun,
O flea mall lamp, O bargain, O repaired flame.

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