10:45 a.m.

so I got up and go to the
bathroom,
vomit, shit, throw water
on my face,
look at that mug
so long ago unseated from beauty, I
wince, gag, giggle
idiotically, spit up
a slide of red that runs downs the
side of the
washbowl–there’s your
hero: lost in the everglades
of haematology.

hero poet
          hero man
                    hero friend
                              hero hero
          hero lover
                    hero bather
                              hero
bullshitter.

young mulatto girls who wear garters
on their nylons like their mothers
used to
would love me here, watering a
plant, putting one white egg
into a small pot   of boiling water,
I walk over
put one finger on the greasy refrigerator
door, draw a horse,
put the number 9 on him as
the phone rings
                              rings
                                        rings
I lift it and say, “Yes?”
fear bounding up and down my arms,
I don’t want to see them
I don’t want to hear them, they should
all die in Greensboro, I need
trenches, armies, the
coordination of luck…
as the cunts of 93,000 swallows vomit
Chekhov

“Hank?” says the voice, “how you
doing?”
“O.k.,” I say.