2009

April is the cruelest month but
December is the coldest.
None of my friends know who
T.S. Eliot is except
for me/ this does not make me
proud.

It is snowing in my bathroom.

In the introduction it will say that
that the flowers of my youth were
watered with the cheapest of beer
and the wasted life of masturbation.



Remember the Night Parties

Alright, so last night I was at a party
and youth hung in the air like the cold @ a
harbor in the earliest morning.
Everyone moved but no one moved
everyone danced but no one could
I watched the girls watch the boys and no one minded.

Can I tell you that we played beer pong? Or is that not literary.
Can a poem be a party - can a poem be the most random of sex
that every single one
hopes?
Can a poem be porn and can a poem be rap and can I (you) be admired for anything?

Someone I did not know got up on a table, and sang.
NO MORE BEER.
NO MORE SEX.
NO MORE JAZZ.
and no one spoke, ever again.

I am thinking of you tonight Ginsberg
just like you thought of Whitman,
because I hope the birds haven't left.



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