Blinks A Little Spot Of Senseless Yellow In The Middle Of It All

YOU can’t tell the time of poetry by ringing the kukoo
bells or maybe you can, but can’t go down the garnished
stairway of saliva to the cunt safely
you can’t tell me Marciano couldn’t have taken
Louis, you can’t tell me that Hitler was a madman, you
can’t tell me that the dog barks only at the night;
you can’t tell me that the flame doesn’t go to the moth,
you can’t tell me that all those people crowded on the corner
of Hollywood and Western and blinking their eyes are
human; you can’t tell me that love is more important than
life, and you can’t stretch on the same mattress with me
and say, I love you.   because
we’re out of cigarettes and we’re out of wine and my
battery is low and my bones
have come back from New Directions and Lorca is dead and
Neruda is dead and Christ with hazel eyes hollered out:
“Where’s it at?” while gaffed like a fish
by little men with dirty fingernails.
we’re out of wine and lick and love and luck.   you can’t
tell me anything.   why don’t you get up and tap that toilet
handle a few times?   it keeps running like