PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

while the trazadone (twice the regular dose) had not yet landed in

             my stomach nor my one glass of water nor all of that beer

while that parked car in monterey where they filled my head in two

             years with all of that chinese bullshit had not yet frozen into

             an eternity

while the streetlights were more and more becoming miscellaneous

             in the  dialogue between the sidewalk and our minds and

             that ghb which we had yet to discover was on overdose

             already and later on would stick to beer

while this wasn't the poem i wanted to write

while i was ashamed mostly for being and being psychotic and at

             times impotent as a lover or as one who loves

while alex had not yet killed himself but was already trying destroying

             his father's car in the process but still believing that god was

             at all any more concerned with tending our souls than god

            was concerned with the beetle and its ball of dung

while the dinosaurs were dead and while we were waiting for the next

            big one and for jesus while some others among us were

            already trying to escape through spiritual transcendence

            through poems and buckets and buckets of suicide

while finely from us were coming words about the soul in bars and on

           piers to the side of bars because they had closed and we

           couldn't drive anywhere as we were where the ocean more

           vast even than our vast grief or our vast joy at our books and

           genitals had ever been still was near-absolutely invisible for

for the sun that would come later and we would cum or she would

           cum or i would cum regardless what else was there then or

           now to fill up our heads even with hands full of cock our eyes

           were empty even with ariel open in our laps even while better

           words which we had never heard awaited our return to our

           self-assembly bookshelves

while we wanted desperately to be jewish revolutionary

           poet-prostitute-transcendental-transexual burdens on

           america but instead were

           doped-up-atheist-souless-mentally-unsound-even-more-

           nuclear-bomb-cynical-utterly-disquieting-but-not-at-all-

           evocative-bullshit burdens on america not poor enough or

           novel enough or not ensconced enough in soviet-era russian

           literature or who had suffered too much or too little who were

           either too crazy to make sense of or too sane to be intelligible

           or who's souls which were our only doorway which led still both

           to this world and the infinite ether were too brittle or even too

           endless to possibly communicate

while we sat as sober as patio-stones bathed in white light and the

           attention of the orderlies trying to describe again and again

           to them why we were there to begin with when after two

           decades we could still summon neither the wit nor the mana

           nor enough of our own medication to figure to ourselves even

           yet what we were while they told you it was a hospital but you

           told them truthfully that it was was born to be and had the soul of

           a political prison

while we were still psychotic nevertheless and who will employ us

           now ever again

while we still have small apartments inside of small towns

while the cops still number too many and are far cleverer than we

           make out in our comedy

while our sorrow still is as disproportionate

while we still hungry muse on which people outside of ourselves

           might better know the path to wisdom and the end of the

           cycle of reincarnation  

and who would sleep with us?