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

i numb my mind with cartoons and high grade marijuana

spouting off outrageous claims like “i am going to kill the

president” or

“i am the chosen one; the sun god told me so”

i am a caffeine fiend and nicotine queen

ex (future) junkie whore if this bit doesn’t work

i remember everything, even the things i say i don’t

every second of this comedy called life

where everyone is seeking mysteries but

forgetting about reality

i see the beauty in all: art, poetry, hoboes, and

naked people dancing in the street

i see the hazy visions

i can never tell for i am the keeper of the children

each and every one of you i am the mother, protector

i am always there, waiting for you

the scandals that surround me are true

i am only half angel

the shadows find me, too

but i know the way

the rest we’ll catch as catch can

burn the flags and smoke the pipes

run with the hunted and hide in the light

win harms