Maybe itís the caffeine,
Maybe itís not.
I canít quite place
My attitude,
Waiting in bed
For the Resurrection
Of half a man
At least.
Maybe more.
Canít say;
Canít speak, either.
As far as I
Could throw myself,
All I see is
All I see.
I must be less than
When I started,
A star
In my own constellation.
Creaking eyelids
Bring me pain,
Burning the
Water on ice.
Jack Kerouac:
Where are you now?
How do your posies grow?
With telephone bells
And farmersí dells
All lined up to be shot.

rjw, Fall Ď87

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