putting it to bed

the first poem is the last poem is the
best poem
pulling its stockings off
late in the night of the
morning
the best poem is the last
poem
the poem poem poem
as nine tenths of the people of
this city are
asleep
I am up with the murders and the
thieves and the cab drivers
and some of the
prostitutes
and many of the drunks
and the mad
and the insomniacs
and the ect.,
I murder the language,
I steal the language,
I drink the language,
I am mad with the language
in the cab of my mind,
I am a whore.

the last poem
running out of my fingers

soon I will be asleep with
my wife and my
cats

we will be all in the same
room,
still,
except for some wheezings
and turnings

and this last poem will
sit in this room
and I will be in the other
room
and some day you will
read this poem,
perhaps,
and think,
that guy makes too much
of it.

the last poem
this last poem
the best   for me.

to hell with
you.