Litwrit: I spit into raw cans
I was Woody Allen last night and
the night before that I was Andy Warhol at a baseball game and
the night before that I was Dirk Diggler, Charlie Bronson, Tilden Katz, and each person was more important than the last kind of like how
tonight I will be someone else who will be the most important one of all up until now
I read a book about the self and
before that I read a book about being in love in Paris and
before that I read a book about bars and restaurants and apartment buildings in New York City during the second World War and one man was desperate for affection it made a boy commit murder on a rooftop but
more than anything they put whiskey, wine, and whiskey in my cup
I typed at my typewriter all evening and
before that I was typing in front of my computer screen all afternoon with Kahlua in my coffee and
before that I was scribbling useless lightning thoughts that struck my mind from the storm outside like “dog-hair hash,” “ridiculous Dali,” “brain field,”—and none of them bloomed into poetry but
they are there for the knowing and it would frighten me if they were not
I was Orion’s Belt the last time I was in love and
before that she was Cassiopeia but only in the country and
before that love wasn’t a coincidence I knew of somewhere somethings and the order of the steps of the dance that they danced there was nothing by chance but
the stars are immobile for everyone save sailors and I am landlocked
I spit into raw cans and
after that I’ll catch a bus with shaking hands and
after that I’ll fantasize about some distant horizon that isn’t nearly as important as the one that I am currently sitting on the sky finding me the same as anyone just like how
the roads wind towards and away from here the exact same amount as anywhere else on the map
