i wait

who scattered paper all over the floor here

in this scene that i imagine

where my eyes are rolled back in my skull

and my tongue stiff and erect like a red carpet

welcomes thousands of black ants bearing your freckles

who saunter into my mouth and easy, easy down the hatch?

Well i guess this is more journal than poem.

the clock is stuck at 11:15.

the poet w/ heavy eyelids listens to the band

morphine, and melts pleasantly into the sofa.

Glimpses, the mind's version of still-frames

of hunter s. thompson smoking a wide cigar

in a ruffian bar where hell's angels shoot pool.

you call me on my cell--my leg vibrates

and for a second i can't figure out what it is.

oh--the phone.

there's incense, red-pepper lights, and candles.

the kitten, bored of her soccerball, plays with my shoe.

you say you're on your way.

the poet plays this kind of music b/c he likes the way

it makes him feel--lost these days is an appreciation

of how the songs make you FEEL--he likes this band

b/c he knows the world is much bigger than we imagine,

making us a lot smaller than we think, plus he realized

from the get-go there is a hint of eeriness to this night.

something a little...extra.

as he waits, the poet places himself inside your eyeball,

where the lights are out and constellations projected

onto the dome. the poet waits on a sofa

in a small vacant rental house in a small rural town.

i remember you like i remember the shocks

that bolted through my heart when i saw

that painting Picasso did of a young girl

holding a dove to her chest.

you will emerge through this door and i will stand

and open myself up;

we will jet towards each other

splash into each other,

our bodies will mix and fall

as water on the hard wood floor.