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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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