I’ve read Rimbaud
and loved the wild lover young with full women’s hips and flush mouths always at his pen.
Always wanting to begin with a deficit of sleep and food, I am learning to come to the paper
instead of desperate.
who is always talking,
can repaint portraits with his pen
and write about painters in straightforward
who should keep me from wanting to
Even Kerouac went to school.
This Thera Flu
has made a tadpole out of me.
If I close my eyes I can see the mouth
talking me out of a fish tank.
Picasso and Stein
loved each other
until the subject was satisfied
with the exact spreading of
Who told me to come like this?
My head is full of sloshiness,
My hips are full of writing.
if Hemingway could tell me something,
it would be to transcribe this