Poem.

Untitled Poem from 20 or 25 Years Ago

I am a sensitive poet

I think of cruelty

     of knives, daggers, rapiers,

     whips, pistols, rifles, hatchets,

    ICBMs.

Sometimes I fall down or a meteor

     strikes my head

     (Craters don’t form)

There are lots of pretty young girls

lying in the grass --

     the dementia of fish

I think of the shark

look at my prey

     think of sharp teeth

     tearing, rending,

          with gravy

The red juice of the t-bone drips

from my mouth

     Droplets are forming everywhere

     on fixed bayonets

     with love.

I whistle a tune

I whistle a tune till my head hurts

     from the jaw muscles up

I hear hell

It’s hot out and something is going to happen.

     God bless you.