Poet on Ode St

kind of irony

poet on Ode st.

cool fall morning
autumnal sky

like gray coals
on blue background
slivers of golden
light

plays tricks on
eyes

hands pull at grave stones
in feather caps
locked in your mind

Keats says,
"fuck it,"

words are viruses
paraphrased from
old bones Burroughs
dead and gone

this is neither that nor
this preternaturally
speaking preternaturally
knowing
*wink**wink*
like you're on to
something I'm not,

is it all those things you're
thinking at once?

my guess--

my guess is also
young flesh is beautiful
old is learned
with age and wrinkles
is like paste like
napalm that won't
rub off--

I am a cleft lip
hufffing spitting dreaming

writing about death is
writing about life
is stepping out into the cold
afraid

you have to be afraid
to jot it down

or else it don't work.