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Hey Jack



Jack, why did you slash the wrist of your immortal muse?
Did you stare
as Red idioms pooled?
Dripping, seeping, spilling, pouring streams of
skillful consciousness
soggy on the soles of your boots, leaving
tracks
along Route 66.

Allen, the hawk stopped by my garden for breakfast today
Majestic
menacing brazen magnificent.
Can you imagine having Bukowski as your
mailman?


And what would you Say to the academics when
they ripped Billy to
pieces, while
his back was turned.


© 2009
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