Saturday, January 16, 2016

Fuck Bob Dylan
he wrote the song
I was meant to write
Shithead Bukowski
settin’ in his grave and laughin’
has no mercy on my calling
write the fucking poem he sez
he’s already in love
meaning you, my passion
today I went to the soup kitchen
and felt the full strength of
her fasten herself to me
like a crab, or kangaroo or a newborn baby
this was too much and too little
all at once
she saw the kindness
I knew the outcome
she wept and hugged
and then some
How would Bob write this
genius aggression
me on the ground
me saying things
I shouldn’t say
She fell into me in a doughnut of heat
I activated the life vests
on both of us
Don’t let them see your tears
they won’t understand
so much is in their hands
every week
every week
They are hungry I said
and she wept indiscreet
they are just hungry I said
and she nodded and left
came back a bit straighter
came back without a word
came back and served
Everything I want to write
has been written
even my epitaph will be stolen
we are a band of thieves
we are humans left longing
each moment is
churchless and
wronged and

Each moment is gone

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