everybody writes
poetry
i
write poetry
badly of course
the grape jelly
is gone the way
of bullfighters
and hemmingway
because
books burn easier
than gold


guns lay
hot and naked
next to hands
on carpeted floors
and
roses fool the sun
while i wait
against the window
and the telephone


solitude
comes only in crowds
and small birds
reaching for the roof


we had a deal
or so she
thought
yes
we did
locked in water pistols
set to
shoot out the
horsemen
only getting as
close as the
bush


so i’ll sleep
in my car
again tonight
hoping the police
won’t catch me
and
the dandelions
won’t blush
as the oceans
sit on the world
so very far
away