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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