I am the lapse. The collapsed
left lung of a little boy
who would die before
the next administration
of fluids and electrolytes.
His name was Chris West
and in that lung was a squashed
ballad "down by the Bay
where the watermelons
grow" and oh
how blonde were
the hairs on his head and oh
how blonde were
his lucky you hands.
No.
I am the stone
testicle, the arterial
ride on the roller coaster
that plummets
the stomach.
I'm the Hummer
of Arnold Schwarzenegger
riding through
Beverley Hills and
everyone looks at me
so look at me you
palm tree bitch.
No, I'm not.
I am poor.
I am so poor
that I vomit pennies.
Dimes trash
the sunset
so count them
if you want to be
loved tonight.
In this economy,
I am nothing.
My friends are nothing.
The poems that they write
are good for nothing
and there's nothing
that they can do about it.
My good for nothing
friends steal meat
from the butcher
and then cut off
their fingers and feed
them to their cats-
those ethical monks.
The suffocation cats
enter your room
when you least expect it.
You cough blood because
you can't pay for
the doctor and fur
is clumping up in
your aorta again.
You buy those dime store
drugs-purple syrups,
red pills and wait under
a thin sheet of glass.
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