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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 1 My house (it's a really two-bedroom apartment On the corner of Moorpark, lineup as if it Was a firecracker or criminal lot, unshaven, old; Overcrowding and unquiet nearby an overcrowded Avenue filled with prostitutes, hustlers, pimps, etc.) In front of my house there were several roses and wild Carmelites, And sometimes they called it the flowery hamburger-tree building. I knew it was rooted by a woman named Martha -- --A white, fat housewife who lived at Apartment 334 Who taught me how to make roses with recycle of Newspapers And they're very pretty in Thanksgiving parade. But Martha knew how they could be so pretty, And she is dead now, (killed by an overnight bullet By an unknown gunman who had stolen three dollars On her night able...The bullet crossed her face, And we all missed her. 2 Across the corridor, unspoken long pathways Of fairest oldies and bloody virgins And hanging up against the walls secret codes and God knows what the hell these say. It began to expand with regressive fall, repeating over and over They were completely no alone. Back there, soured smell, noises, Stolen tires and a shitted pool, and that all ought to be Passing in same way where the trees were lower, And the brushes waving high and all happen just like that. 3 Now, here, inside this Beverly Hill apartment house In Moorpark, an empty kitchen and some funny pictures: apples & oranges & a Girl watches a landscape; all were unchangeable against the wall. Holding the anger still Seriously as a half-onion, I kept playing any That initial bid knowing as Death and Hope which I know it is part of our dream. My dream, and that one day I'll zoom myself out. From "The Nursery Dawn"
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