I WILL NOT EAT MY POEM

 I kill for pleasure
not for gain.

A man much more
than you my hands
find knives
& flash them.

I am guilty
in my works
while in their eyes
I seek redemption.

I find myself
forgotten
angry at the thought
of bread.
 I will not
eat my poem(A.
 Artaud)
much less be raped
by it.
 I have a home
but sit with others
shirtless, waiting
for the moon to rise.

I am a warrior
grown old.

The number on my ticket 
tells the time.

I seldom wash
& wear a string 
around my throat
until it crumbles.

See yourself for love
the fool advises
& the wise man murmurs
Spill it now!
Your glass is never
empty!
I see your arm
the color of 
wild lilacs.

It is not too late
for memory.

Days together are
like days apart.

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