Lines about bones in Jack Spicer.
Lines about ghosts.
Lines about tiny ghosts.
As “something” in “flesh” I always
feel shy about decomposition.
I’ll feel nervous about dying in a coffee shop
if you’ll feel nervous about dying in a coffee shop
and we can split a bagel with honey and apples.
I may describe in a 14-part poem holding hands
with a bulbous massive abstraction called “Spirit”
outside the movie theater after Kiss Me Deadly.
I may deride the progress of the poem, adjust the shades,
throw the polished laptops of you, sly reader, out the window.
I may throw your laptops out the window the street
below to be consumed by packs of old men in white denim,
I’m still not sure about the function of the hymen.
In my life I’ve disappointed many women and several men.