I look at you and I want to kill gods;
And I do. I get them drunk in their Christmas
Tree trailer parks,
And I cut their throats and coyotes lay off the
Neighborhood cats,
And come loping, telling jokes in a lappy
Drum circle around that immortal wine;
And I really do love you,
And to prove that you are mine, I shoot the eyes
Out of commercial airplanes with my BB gun:
And the stewardesses scream until the young
Boys leap up and French-kiss them,
And they go to sleep across the spotless canal,
Where alligators like grandmothers watch over
Them forever, forever,
In the beds of conquistador metal which can never
Be unproven;
And I sleep with my good side turned to you,
Because I am always afraid that you might care;
But I never let go off your finicky palm,
And we jog together around intercostal golf
Courses landscaped in spikenard and palm;
And I should be delivering these blue letters of other
Lovesick men, to pay for our dinner of bread and gin;
But instead I just keep slipping my words through thin air,
Folded in the eye of a misconceived hurricane,
Hoping you’ll believe even the poorest thing is rare.
Even The Poorest Thing
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