The Beautiful Feeling After Writing A Poem

She Suffers According To The Digits Of My Hate. I Hear The Filaments Of Alabaster. I Would Lie Down With Them And Lift My Madness Off Like A Wig. I Would Lie Outside In A Room Of Wool And Let The Snow Cover Me. Paris White Or Flake White Or Argentine, All In The Washbasin Of My Mouth, Calling “oh.” I Am Empty. I Am Witless. Death Is Here. There Is No Other Settlement.

Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build.

Poetry Is My Life, My Postmark, My Hands, My Kitchen, My Face.

I Tell It Stories Now And Then And Feed It Images Like Honey. I Will Not Speculate Today With Poems That Think They're Money.

Our Checks Are Pale. Our Wallets Are Invalids. Past Due, Past Due, Is What Our Bills Are Saying And Yet We Kiss In Every Corner, Scuffing The Dust And The Cat. Love Rises Like Bread As We Go Bust.