Everything one invents is true, you may be perfectly sure of that. Poetry is as precise as geometry.
Today I woke up and sat in a cafe on Vermont
and read Bukowski.
He referenced the street.
I smoked a cigarette and read about his asshole experiences.
I went home and sat in bed
and read Neruda.
He referenced my heart.
I wept and read about my own experience.
I have cried too much today.
Even the clocks are tired.
Tumbles forth from my mouth
your taste of humanity
teeming with lies of good intent.
This is no way to love anyone for more than minutes,
but still you manage
a n d a g a i n.
You’re fantastic when it lasts,
but it never does
and you are winded.
We compose a wet mess between us,
but devise another until the first one is gone:
Burned somewhere between my chest and your navel.
Your aftertaste is universally bitter.