I can’t get out of this city.
One by one my friends run afoul the law.
I run myself crazy getting nothing done,
don’t stop to sleep or help them out.
Bruise inside left elbow from
tapping outfit in after blood
too often, it’s easiest there.
My life inside the last line.
Always the easiest way often, &
wear short sleeves. Let them stare,
be damned & drive on. I do what I want.
For you I’d spill out on a table
all I’ve kept clenched inside,
betray my true nature with joy.
Next Christmas Eve at quarter past noon
I was born thirty-three years ago
in Chico, California
I cross swords with
whenever I catch it shining
out of my night, like now,
typing this poem, at right angles to
the straight line of my desire
rolls out like a carpet, out
where we touch, Marthe,
I make you come so good
you let go pleasures I claim my own,
mine by birthright of relentless desire
now in my throat like a fist
with its knuckles growing white
that makes every word I sing
an ache in my balls without you.