Dream Song 83: Op. posth. no. 6

 I recall a boil, whereupon as I had to sit,
just where, and when I had to, for deadlines.

O I could learn to type standing,
but isn't it slim to be slumped off from that,
problems undignified, fiery dig salt mines?—
Content on one's black flat:

soming no deadline—is all ancient nonsense—
no typewriters—ha! ha!—no typewriters—
alas!
For I have much to open, I know immense
troubles & wonders to their secret curse.

Yet when erect on my ass,

pissed off, I sat two-square, I kept shut my mouth
and stilled my nimble fingers across keys.

That is I stood up.

Now since down I lay, void of love & ruth,
I'd howl my knowings, only there's the earth
overhead.
 Plop!

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