I use poems the size of war.
I write them in the morning
after the pretty city motions work.
When other citizens shop
for beans or rake progress
I arrange sounds that fuck people.
So high they get, after my oos and aahs
they promise not to kill again
Strangers keep asking when I’m going to fit
the mold that they need. I’m a hobo, a street musician.
I paint on corners, and read my poems
on the sidewalk. Fuck the coffee snob houses.
They’ll take me if I want them.
I write. This is it. This is all you get.
This is my hand. It will probably cramp soon.
I must write while pain is young
Let us not be folded into others’ cubicles,
not deranged and broken by their patterns.
Listen. I am the greatest woman to ever live.
Lick me. When I walk into a room of dredges
they slide the muck towards me with eyes as lonely
as history. They want to pluck my string. Hear the symphony
of my fucked lost lines. Stand aside
poesy. I have a cunt of amber. Men, women
I’ve changed the philosophy, I’ve brought back witchcraft.