I enjoy attacking the sun with a

squirt gun.

I am drunk, I will sleep on my left

side to awaken in the morning and

read this candy-ass poem,

wretchedly.

the word

the word has no legs or eyes,

has no mouth, has no arms,

has no intestines and

often no heart, or very

little.

you can’t ask the word to

light your cigarette

although it will help you

enjoy your wine.

and you can’t force the word

to do anything it doesn’t

want to do.

you can’t overwork it.

and you can’t awaken it

when it decides to

sleep.

the word will treat you well

at times,

depending upon what you

ask it to

do.

other times, it will treat

you badly

no matter what you ask

it to

do.

the word comes and

goes.

sometimes you must

wait a very long time

for it.

sometimes it never

comes back.

sometimes writers

kill themselves

when the word

leaves.

other writers will

pretend that it is still

there

even though the word

is dead and

buried.

many famous writers

do this.

and many less-famous

who

only call themselves

writers.

the word is not for

everybody.

and for most,

it’s there

just for a very short

time.

the word is one of

the most

powerful miracles

in

existence,

it can enlighten or

destroy

minds,

nations,

cultures.

the word is dangerous

and beautiful.

if it arrives for you,

you will know

it

and you will be the

luckiest of

humans.

nothing else will

matter and

everything else will

matter.

you will be the

center of the

sun,

you will be laughing

through the

centuries,

you will have

it,

your fingers

your guts

will have

it,

you will be,

for as long as it

lasts,

a god-damned

writer

doing the possible

impossible,

getting it down,

getting it down,

getting it

down.

please

save me from them

and their smooth comfortable faces

and their relaxed

effrontery,

their crossed legs and their canvas

shoes,

their soft bellies, their soft

minds,

their cagey courtesy,

their pallid smiles,

their needless tinkering with your

hours,

their entrance into your life

through others,

god, the awful people you must

deal with

because you no longer live

alone,

these pieces of squash,

these polliwogs,

these suckerfish

and their unendurable

visitations,

there by the blinds,

nibbling bits of food,

savoring the wine,

sitting their dumb asses upon

the commodes,

staying an extra day,

an extra week,

an extra life,

so content,

wallowing in your

sight,

saved from your fury through

circumstance,

they fatten before you

stuffing their mouths with

olives, fruit and chips,

smiling through wine-wet lips…

others must see something in

them,

need something from

them

while I shudder in

my damned guts

in disbelief

at what confronts

me.

they notice nothing,

yawn,

and stretch their legs

through my

space.

good night, sweet prince

music of the worm

handles me like a hot fly

as escalators turn into spoons