the poetry mounts me like a satyr
the old man in philly is reticent
the high school kindred is verbose
the parisian sugar daddy is asleep
i’m faithful to no one but to all just the same
not lies, but untruths
i hate the lie but i necessitate it
now don’t know which one it is, the lover, the lie
listening to a tune important in the old days
the good(bad)days
the poetry outdoes itself
metaphor, argot, slang, nudges and winks
it’s happy hour somewhere
maybe on the illustrious california coast
but all the history of that western wing
clumps in my throat and induces a gag reflex
the smell of tequila, south central, and a moment
with wielded power
the pattern: destruction and pleading, and
the knight in shimmering armor
that man so many years or days ago
i see the lines i put in his brow
with my junkie chic freudian bullshit
the word for ad in french is pub
i need a pub with darts
to be grandiloquent among the patrons
of all the gin joints in all the towns
of all the world
win harms
