Maybe the table will crush from the weight of candle light.
There are holes in the plastic cups from impatient hands.
You ask me how I am holding up and I say Good, it’s fine
and you ask me again and I say Good and you ask again
and I say How about another drink the moon is convulsing.
I don’t know what poetry is or what other people think it is.
The mark cannot be hit and I have shaky hands and a bad eye.
It’s good to look at the Holy Tower and hovering green lights.
Someone finally turns and says What’s the quiet one’s name
and someone answers for me and this is the end of knowing.
Everything that means something in my life is from impulse.
I sit in this chair with the deliberateness of a new born.
The host is studying linguistics and I ask if there’s a word for this.
He offers me pot in a beer can but it’s too hard now to let go.
The girl in black is lucky enough to twirl her hair and smile.
A man asks me if I would rather live forever or face mortality.
I said There is only one dream to crush but it really isn’t like that.
Even if I feel I am standing in everyone’s way nobody thinks so.
I see three people sitting in a dark room in silence and I want
to know what it feels like to be satisfied with the sound of hate.
Tomorrow I am going to begin again and file my teeth into candy.
But tomorrow is actually today and that is my biggest tragedy.
Before I came here I read five poems that I didn’t understand.
But I promise to read them later before I stuff them in a pipe.
The dizzying smoke of the pages will justify all of this absence.