pardon me, you got some light?

I cross this room of using me in backward vile, slowly
bending west in search of my social security
I find the ankles of Celine bound in stinking
as the telephone rings
I straighten for my execution like
Dostoevsky    upon the bricks as the halyards swing from
the backboards I
fail to die this time, in fact, start
feeling pretty damned good now
these old songs running up my arms like electric
I walk to this glass door of this night
this parsimonious 1986 putrid time–they shoot the
streets away like clay ducks–
legless drummers dream of pure hot love, oh
Carson McCullers why did you drink yourself to
death on that ocean steamer?
I would have manicured your nails with lemon tree
I walk to this glass door of this night.
all the horses I saw run today are now
to this night of the glass door I walk.
I don’t know whether to sleep, scream or
throw away the